


Breathe

by TheMissingMask



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Insecure Phillip Carlyle, M/M, Mild Gore, Past Child Abuse, Past Injury, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Protective P. T. Barnum, Victorian medical practices, in medical contexts, this is pretty much just an excuse to write some Phillip!whump and caring Phineas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:49:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16644023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMissingMask/pseuds/TheMissingMask
Summary: Phillip survived the flames, but the smoke may claim him yet---or---An excuse to write about Phineas helping Phillip when he suffers from long-term effects of excessive smoke inhalation





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt at writing a Greatest Showman fic, so please forgive any OOCness. The first chapter is pretty much unadulterated, more or less plot-free fluff, and the plot will emerge in the next one...my deepest apologies for this!

\-----------

Phineas had an entire speech prepared.  He had planned it all out, reconsidered every word, planned it all again, edited the redraft, and as the final evaluation, tested on his wife.  After all, it had been Charity who convinced him into pursuing Phillip in the first place.

That Phineas had affections for his partner extending beyond the socially acceptable was a fact that came crashing down on him with the roof of the theatre.  When he saw the younger man run into the flames, the world slowed around him.  Every thought, every nerve screamed at him to save Phillip.  Even when he looked back at his wife, at her pleading eyes, begging him not to go, not to risk his life.  He didn't feel the pull of his love for her over the relentless gravity of his love for Phillip.  As his screams after Phillip were drowned out by the encompassing fire and the cracking, fracturing, decaying remnants of his theatre, his heart pounded too hard, ached too much.  It was an unfamiliar sensation that seemed to burn through him with the understanding of what it meant.  It burned still as he carried the limp body of his partner from the building, struggling not to panic with every glance he took at the unmoving form in his arms.  The melted skin, the blood, the black smoke covering his entire body.

That wasn't the moment he fell in love with Phillip, but it was the moment he realised it.

He visited the younger man in the hospital.  Sat by him with one hand taken in both of his, Anne Wheeler seated opposite him.  He knew that she understood the depth of his affection, at that point probably better than he did himself.  She had smiled sadly and stroked Phillip's hair with one hand, promising the ringmaster that she'd tell no one he had been there.

Phineas suppressed his passions and desires for the sake of the people he loved.  For Charity and his daughters, who he had already left alone for too long.  For Anne Wheeler, who was a far better, far kinder, lover for Phillip than he could ever be.  For Phillip, because Phineas had already brought more than enough scandal into the young man's life.  He sure as hell didn't need to add homosexuality to the list of reasons protestors and former associates jeered at him as he walked the streets, or assaulted him if he ventured too far from the tent on his own.

And yet, with all his good intentions to quash that desire, Phineas had never actually had any capacity for emotional restraint or suppression of feelings.  So, it should have come as no surprise when barely two weeks after leaving the circus, Charity had casually brought up the subject with him over a cup of tea as they watched their daughters play in the garden. 

"You should go back to him."

Phineas looked from the window sharply, "I'm sorry?"

"Go back to him, Phineas.  Listen to your heart.  You'll never be happy unless you do." She smiled softly and reached out to take his hand, "I know you miss the circus, and I know you miss him more than anything."

"Charity, I don't--"

 

 

"Please.  I know you too well for all that." She sipped at her tea, one hand still holding his, "It's obvious that you're in love with him."

"Charity--"

"Lind was a different matter.  You didn't love her, and she was no friend to us.  But Phillip is family.  The girls adore him, and so do I.  But more than that, I adore that he makes you happy.  He makes you light up like I have never seen, and you do the same for him.  I want you to go back to the circus, go back to him."

"But--"

"We'll be fine here.  I'm happy here.  I have the girls, and expect you to visit regularly, write weekly.  Bring Phillip to visit too, if you would, once you've sorted everything out with him."

"Charity, I--"

"Oh, come now Phin, there's no need to--"

"Would you listen?" He moved swiftly off his chair to kneel before her, removing the teacup and taking both her hands in his, "I promised to build a world for you and our family.  I love you, and that will never change."

"I know you do, but that does not mean it is me that you are _in love_ with." She leant over to kiss the top of his head, "You have built a world for us to live in.  A perfect world, and we are happy.  But you also built a world for your other family, for the circus, and I know you will never be as happy as I am until you're back there.  Until you're with _him_."

Phineas sighed wearily, all too aware that to dispute the point any further with his remarkably astute wife would be an exercise in vain.  Instead, he conceded and turned to the other concern regarding his affections.

"What about Anne?  I know Lettie's correspondence mentioned that they were not involved romantically anymore, but there might still be something between them."

Charity shook her head, "Apparently she is rather taken by the doctor's clerk, and she and Phillip are quite the intimate gossips now."

"Even still, why do you think he would even be interested?" Phineas argued, "He was brought up with the decided conviction that men could not - were not allowed to - love each other."

"And that those not like himself were freaks.  He seems to have overcome that with little difficulty.  Think on it.  But know that you do us no harm by going back to him."

Phineas impressed himself - and severely exasperated Charity - in taking nearly a full week to think the matter over.  He contemplated it from all sides, from all conceivable outcomes, from all eventualities, and concluded that she was right.  Worst case, Phillip rejected him outright.  The young man was too kind-hearted and reasonable to begrudge his partner if the feelings were not returned.  He wouldn't judge Phineas.  The worst case could hold no horrors beyond the few moments of initial mortifying humiliation and a week or two of awkwardness.  As for returning to the circus as ringmaster, that was one thing he could be certain Phillip would agree to without hesitation.  It would be easier to run and maintain the circus with them both.  More importantly, the show would be a greater success.  They could push it further, make it more spectacular, because, simply put, as partners they  _worked_.

Returning to the circus to confess his feelings was obviously the conclusion he was bound to land on, since Charity really seemed to never be wrong, but Phineas felt the matter serious enough to at least make a show of giving it more time than necessary to reach the inevitable solution.  And then he delayed another day to have his wife evaluate the content of his intended speech to Phillip.  He thought it was an important point.  He needed to go in with a plan, with flair and style, and all the tools available to him.  She laughed like he was ridiculous, and said as much, but listened and contributed her thoughts none the less.  It needed some tweaking, but he had a train ride for that.

Phineas bid his girls goodbye, promising to write as soon as he got to New York, and caught the next train to the city.  He practiced the speech again on the train until he was sure it was good enough.  Until he was absolutely, perfectly, and completely certain it said everything he needed to say to Phillip in all the clarity required for something of this gravity.

As if by the machinations of fate, he reached the circus moments before the proverbial curtain rose, just in time to surprise his partner backstage less than a minute before the show began.

When Phillip saw him, he immediately broke out into a wide grin, tipped his top hat in greeting, and just like that, Phineas' precious speech, every carefully crafted word, evaporated.  Obliterated the instant he was faced with that smile.  The way it lit up his eyes, all his features in fact, actually, the entire damned tent.  It blinded the very thought processes out of Phineas.  Phillip all but leapt into the circle that formed their stage, leaving Phineas still reeling from that damned smile.

After the show began, Phineas failed miserably to recollect even a syllable of his speech.  He found himself too captivated by his partner to think.

Phillip had excelled in his expectations.  He moved and sang and spoke with such vivacity and passion.  He worked in perfect harmony with all the performers.  He excited the crowd with his brilliant smile and natural charm, thrilling them into an ecstasy.  The acts were fantastic as always, Phineas was sure, but he saw them only in the periphery of a vision that was reserved solely for Phillip.

The plan had been to ask Phillip to join him after the performance in the little brick hut beside the tent entrance that had become the ringmaster's office, and in there to divulge his secret with all the ceremony it deserved.  With the long thought out, and now entirely forgotten, speech no longer an option, he'd have to make adjustments.  The speech might be out, but at least the rest of the plan could still be enacted.  Perhaps a conversation in the peace of the office, nice and quiet and secluded.  That part of the plan could still be salvaged.

Or, at least, it might have been salvaged, if the very instant Phillip appeared backstage after the finale, Phineas hadn't grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him against a deeply shadowed support pole, crushing their lips together in a bruising kiss.  If there had been any hesitation on the part of the younger man, Phineas didn't have a chance to notice it because almost the instant their lips met, Phillip was returning the kiss with equally desperate fervour.

"Office." He breathed when they broke, just barely, for air.  Phineas nodded - at least  _this_ was sort of part of his plan - and grabbed Phillip's wrist, dragging him directly to the office.

In the privacy of that room, Phineas wasted no time in tugging the red coat from Phillip's shoulders, and with deft fingers hastily doing away with his tie and waistcoat, all the while peppering his jawline with chaste kisses.  As he flicked open the top few buttons of the man's pressed white shirt, he leaned in to the newly exposed flesh and bit down over Phillip's throat, eliciting a delicious groan from the other man that utterly undid Phineas.  He sharply grabbed Phillip's hair, roughly tugging on it to expose the long arch of his throat and bit down again.  Phillip squirmed, moaning again and tangling his hands in Phineas' hair.

"Ah...dammit P. T. ..." Phillip breathed, sucking in his lower lip against another moan.  Phineas grinned wickedly, bit down once more, this time succeeding in drawing that delectable sound from the other's lips and then cutting it short as he captured them with his own.  He tugged on Phillip's hair, angling his head perfectly to ravish his mouth once more.  Slowly he backed his partner against the wall, never letting their lips part until they had hit the solid support.

"Do you want this?" Phineas rasped, voice trembling at the effort taken to maintain enough self-control not to take Phillip right then.

"I should think that was obvious." Phillip panted.

A beat passed.

And then, Phineas was laughing.  He couldn't help it.  He dropped his forehead against Phillip's, hand resting against his jaw, and laughed softly.

"What?!"

"It's just, I had a speech planned."

"A speech?"

"Yeah.  I'd practiced it too." Phineas settled his hands on Phillip's waist, stepping back enough to look him in the eyes, "It was going to be eloquent, and poetic, and adorned with all the flourishes a declaration of love ought to be."

At the word, at  _that_ word, Phillip's eyes widened.  Bright blue, dazzling, afraid.  No, not afraid.  Hopeful.

A tremor ran through the younger man and he dropped his head against Phineas' shoulder to hide his face.

"I'm glad you forgot it." He murmured, "I had a horrific hangover after your last speech."

Phineas laughed brightly and wrapped his arms around the shoulders of the other man.

"No shots this time." He kissed the top of Phillip's hair, "Just the truth."

"The truth..."

"That I love you.  Am  _in love_ with you, Phillip."

The body in his arms shuddered.

"But, is this...is it...can we?"

"Charity understands.  She saw it before I did.  We're ok."

He felt Phillip's head against his shoulder move in a nod, "I know.  At least, I do now.  She sent a message through Lettie last week to say she consented, and I'd understand when the time came.  I guess this is what she meant.  But, it's just we're..."

"Both men?"

"Yes."

"And that's wrong?"

"So I've been told." Phillip replied gravely, "Repeatedly."

"And you were told not to befriend people of colour, or associate with the lower classes.  You were told to stand and look pretty while others mapped your life out for you, to write plays that you detested because they were what society expected, to marry against your will because a match was 'good'."

Phineas pulled back, clasping Phillip's face in his hands, looking into those impossibly blue eyes.

"Love is love, Phillip.  It doesn't care about race or upbringing or gender.  I love you, and nothing can change that.  You don't have to love me back, but you have to know that love, wherever you feel it, cannot be wrong.  It cannot be stopped or suppressed by society."

"Don't have to love you back." Phillip shook his head and huffed out a laugh, "You're ridiculous.  I can't help but love you back."

He leant up, standing on his toes to reach Phineas' mouth and carefully press their lips together, "I can't help but be in love with you."

Phineas smiled and wrapped his arms around the other man again, pulling him into his embrace.  The younger ringmaster was going to need time to deal with this, he knew.  It had even been part of his speech.  Phineas hadn't had by any means an easy upbringing, but he at least hadn't had societal rules aggressively shoved down his throat like Phillip had.  He'd even dabbled, experimented a bit, with other men during the long nights working on the railroads when there was nothing else to do.  Meaningless acts of lust that were enjoyable while they lasted but left you feeling hollow and cold.  He never much cared for sex without love.  It made little sense to him.  It was meaningless and empty without love.  But he accepted the physical need for intimacy, and he had done the act that he knew scared Phillip so much.  A fear incited, no doubt, by lectures and punishments and promises of retribution from his parents or schoolmasters.

His partner would need time to get there, and Phineas would wait as long as it took.

 ---

"So, you're staying?  Permanently?" Phillip asked the following morning as he sipped at his strong, black coffee.  One of the first items of furniture to find its way into the ringmaster's office was a copper percolator for supplying the coffee inevitably needed for late nights spent pouring over paperwork, and it had clearly been in regular use by the younger man.

"If you have no objection." Phineas blew over the top of his own drink, watching the steam curl up in the cold morning air.  They'd spent the night on the deep red chaise longue that was the second item of furniture in the office, obtained so that busy periods of work need not be interrupted by the ringmaster having to leave the circus to sleep.

"Objection?  Why on Earth would I object?"

"Well, I gave the circus to you, and now I'm here, wanting to be a part of it again."

"You never stopped being a part of it." Phillip's eyes met his, "And I want you to be here."

Phineas found he had to turn to his coffee to keep from being enraptured by that iridescent gaze.

"Actually, I had a few ideas for the next season that I wanted to run by you." Phillip continued, all business as if he hadn't just melted his partner's heart, "We only have a few weeks left of this season, and I thought we could discuss them later."

"Of course," Phineas replied, "And then we can discuss why exactly it is that you're living in the office and not a nice warm apartment."

He had noticed the neatly folded piles of clothes and grooming equipment tidied to one corner of the room.

Phillip coloured and ducked his head, "Would you mind not being so damn perceptive?"

"No promises.  Now, an answer, if you please?" Phineas shot Phillip the same expectant look he gave his daughters when they had been misbehaving, or in fact that he gave Phillip when he caught him trying overly daring acts on the trapeze without spotters.

"It's more efficient and saves money.  This way, I'm always on hand if something happens, and not wasting funds on an apartment I'd hardly ever be in to start with."

"You'll freeze to death sleeping in here if it gets much colder."

"I was warm enough last night." Phillip smirked.  He had slept in Phineas' arms on the chaise beneath three blankets.  Phineas had to agree, he had spent a very comfortable night with the other man, lulled to sleep by his soft breaths.

"You could at least have a fireplace installed."

"I'd rather not." Phillip replied sharply.

Phineas winced at the abrupt tone, mentally kicking himself for the insensitivity.

"Sorry, Phil.  I didn't mean -- "

"It's fine." Phillip laughed bitterly, "It's a little ridiculous, actually.  There's always fire in the show, and it doesn't bother me in the slightest.  But that's, well, it's controlled.  I trust the people handling it.  In a fireplace, it's just so much more... _there_."

"Then, more blankets for now, and we can see about an apartment nearby for the two of us."

Phillip hesitated, "Together?  Wouldn't people grow suspicious?"

"There's no law against two men living together, Phillip."

"I suppose not..."

"However," Phineas quickly changed the line of conversation, afraid of ruining whatever it was that existed between them before it had a chance to grow into anything, "We have a show to prepare for, do we not?  I think accommodation and next season's performances can wait for now."

"Would you like to take over tonight?" Phillip asked after a brief pause, but his lover was already shaking his head before he could make any further suggestion on the point.

"No.  This season is yours." Phineas pulled Phillip to his feet and planted a chaste kiss against his lips, tasting rich, dark coffee, "So don't let me down, darling."

Phillip grinned wickedly, "Just wait.  I have something special planned."

"Should I be concerned?"

"Perhaps." Phillip pulled Phineas down into a languid kiss, "But first, paper work."

Phineas groaned.

"Don't complain.  We both know you're not going to actually do any of it anyway." Phillip pulled a pile of paper from the top drawer of their desk, "Courtesy of some little distraction last night, I didn't look at yesterday's ticket sales, and we have to put some funds aside to cover clothing and fuel costs for the winter months.  The tent will be much colder than the theatre, and we can't rehearse in freezing temperatures or someone will get injured.  There's also..."

Phineas zoned out in favour of admiring his partner.  He spoke with a conviction in his voice and the light of calculation in his eyes, continuously considering even as he spoke or read or paced about the room.  The room wasn't warm, so both men had fully dressed again.  Phillip's scarf was draped over his shoulders beneath the collar of his frock coat, the red fabric almost the same hue as the bruise Phineas had sucked into his neck the night before, which hid just beneath the starched collar of his shirt.  Phineas grabbed Phillip's wrist as he paced by, pulling the smaller  body flush against his, and tugged the collar down to examine the evidence of their liaison.

"Barnum, you're incorrigible." Phillip tried to glare up at him, but a smile was twisting at the corners of his lips.  A smile that vanished instantly when the door to the office creaked open.

Lettie stood in the open doorway, took one look at them, and broke into a grin.  Phillip froze between moving to leap away from his partner, and evidently realising that would draw more attention to their current proximity than remaining there.

"W.D. says one of the ropes is wearing thin at the the pulley." She announced, catching Phineas' eye and understanding the importance of her disregarding the scene as anything unusual.

"Thanks, Lettie." Phineas smiled.

Phillip stepped back hastily and straightened his clothes.

"I'll go check it out before one of our reckless employees decides to break their neck."

"One of our reckless employees being you." Phineas retorted, taking the sheets of ticket sales from his hand, "I've seen you playing in the rigging."

"Rehearsing.  Rehearsing in the rigging." He corrected.

"Whatever you say."

Phillip rolled his eyes and left the room, nodding politely to Lettie as she stood out the way to let him pass, and failing entirely to hide his blush behind the collar of his coat.

"So," She bumped her hip against the door to close it after Phillip's footfalls had faded away, "I take it you and Phillip had a talk?"

"That we did."

The bearded woman came into the room to lean against the desk, folding her arms expectantly, "And?"

Phineas sat up and tossed the paperwork to the side, "And, I conjecture you have already guessed the product of said talk.  The degree of our attachment."

"I guessed it a long time ago.  You two sure took a while to catch up."

"There were complications."

"Don't give me that.  You were scared, he was scared.  There's nothing more complicated about the pair of you than there is about me singing in front of a crowd."

Phineas laughed, "Yeah.  I know.  He knows too.  But the impropriety of it was enforced far more strongly on him than me.  He needs time to accept it himself before we can go announcing it to anyone else, so please -- "

"Not a word." She promised and clasped his hand, "Not until you're both ready."

\---

As far as Phineas could tell, there were really only two impediments to Phillip's being 'ready'.  Well, three technically, but since Mr Carlyle the elder was to all intents and purposes out of Phillip's life now, the third should surely dwindle in its influence over time.  The other two were the ones Phineas had some power over.

The first hurdle for the couple to overcome was for the rest of the circus to be told, and for the young ringmaster to see that no one thought ill of him for it.  This was achieved after a week of their being together.  A week of blissful nights spent in each other's arms, of stolen kisses and caresses, of long easy conversations over coffee or (moderated amounts of) whisky.  One afternoon after a successful matinee performance, Phineas found his lover sat under the bleachers on an overturned bucket with a gas lamp at his feet, and some white fabric, a needle and thread in his hands.

"I was looking for you." Phineas pulled up a crate from nearby and sat down opposite his lover, "What are you repairing?"

"My shirt.  It got caught on a nail a while ago, and I lost a button from my coat during the finale today.  I need to fix at least the latter before this evening." Phillip replied, frowning deeply as he stared at his stitching, "However, I can't seem to get the button to stay on, and I'm quite certain that should I finish stitching this up, it will look considerably worse than when it was perforated with a prominent tear."

Phineas grinned and placed his hands over Phillip's, letting their fingers brush as he took the shirt and needle from him.

"You need to use a slip stitch for a rip like this, otherwise it will show the stitching and the sleeve won't hang right." He began to remove the thread from the shirt, "You haven't done much sewing before, have you?"

"Essentially none." Phillip admitted with some embarrassment, "Growing up, it was never expected I would need to sew my own clothes.  Or cook for myself.  Or clean.  Or, really, do anything of practical value."

Phineas began to remove the crude stitches his partner had already attacked the shirt sleeve with.

"Do you miss it?"

"The whiskey, and misery, and parties, and plays?" Phillip smirked, "Not one bit.  I didn't belong there.  Here, even if I don't quite fit in, at least I feel like it's where I'm meant to be."

"You do fit in here." Phineas said softly, "It doesn't matter that you were brought up among the aristocracy, or whether or not you know how to sew.  In fact, I'll tell you in confidence that Charles doesn't know either.  He gets Constantine to do all his sewing for him."

"And there he was mocking my incompetence in the area." Phillip's expression eased, lost some of its tension, as the discussion turned away from him towards another of their company.  Phineas felt a pang of guilt at returning the attention to something more personal, but the conversation needed to be had.

"Is that why you're afraid to let anyone in the circus know about us?  Because you think you don't fit in?"

Phillip picked up his coat and started examining his attempt at replacing the button.

"Sometimes I just feel guilty." He began, "I was raised among the same people who shunned them, shunned you, and I don't know what right I have to consider myself worthy of being forgiven for that."

"Those same people who shunned us, hurt you too.  I remember the bruises you tried to hide after you first agreed to join the circus, Phillip, and I don't presume that was the first time.  And now, they've shunned you too because you think like us.  We share the same principles and value the same things.  Whatever your upbringing, or sewing capability, _that's_ what matters.  _That's_ what makes you belong."

Phillip was silent for a long time, toying with the button on his coat.  At last, he looked up, smiling fondly at his lover.

"I'd still like to learn to sew on a button."

Phineas chuckled.

"Alright, come here.  It's all about tying it off properly."

A few minutes later, Phillip was sat on the floor with his back resting against Phineas' legs, carefully sewing on his button while his partner took care of the rip in his shirt.

"I think we should tell them." Phillip said calmly, "They're our family.  They should know."

\---

"Now, before tonight's show begins, I have an announcement.  Or, rather,  _we_ have an announcement."

Phineas looked to Phillip for confirmation that he was happy for this to proceed.  The younger man nodded almost imperceptibly.

"As I'm sure some of you astute people have noticed, Phillip and I have become somewhat  _more_ than partners."

"Translated: you're in love." Charles stated, "Yeah, we had bets on how long it was gonna take.  So, when did you become 'more than partners'?  There's money riding on the specifics."

Phillip had to laugh at that.  He took Phineas' hand, entwining their fingers.

"The evening our ringmaster returned.  I apologise if our timing was inopportune for some of you."

"Could have waited one day!" W.D. cried in mock-despair, "I lost a bottle of good wine on this."

"We really couldn't have." Phineas replied, "We'd waited long enough already."

"Now," Phillip was beaming even as he tried to regain his serious demeanour, "We have a show to get ready for.  The matinee today was fantastic, so let's keep that energy up for one more performance before the day off tomorrow."

\---

Addressing Phillip's other reservation was just as straightforward.

Despite Charity's letter that predated Phineas' advances, Phillip still seemed uncertain whether or not Mrs Barnum would truly accept his being with her husband.  Phillip knew Phineas would never betray her, and that gave weight to the claim that she supported their attachment, but Phillip needed see it for himself before he could really believe it.  The elder ringmaster therefore invited his wife and daughters to the final show of the season, which Phillip promised would be a special one.  His plotting from before was to be unveiled tonight.

The Barnums sat up at the top, able to see the entire stage, and watch in delight as both Phineas and Phillip worked together to orchestrate the performance.  Their double act was something Phillip had proposed on the spur of the moment, or at least, so he tried to make it seem.  Something different to make the audience eager for more when the circus shows commenced again a few months later.  When one ringmaster operated alone, they cheered for the show, but with two the applause was thunderous.  They put on an air of playful rivalry, spending the show stealing the cane from each other to introduce ever more incredible acts, each trying to outdo the other.

It was the finale that revealed what Phillip had been secretly planning.  There were several hoops of fire to be lit, which some of the acrobatic performers leapt or vaulted through.  But when Philip gave the signal for the flames to come alive, they did so in myriad colours.  Bright white and pink and blue and green flickered on the stage, drawing gasps of astonishment from the audience.  Phillip winked at his partner, relishing the victory of his trick.

As soon as the show was over and the performers were all backstage, Phineas' daughters barrelled straight into Phillip's legs.

"Wow!" Helen beamed up at him, "They were like flowers!"

The young ringmaster crouched before her and grinned back, "Yeah, they were pretty, right?"

"How did you do it?" Caroline asked excitedly, "How did you make fire colourful?"

He removed his top hat and placed it on the elder daughter's head and lifting Helen up so she could steal the hat from her father.

"Magic." He said, as he set the younger down, engaging both with an excited gaze, "I learnt it from a fairy on the last full moon."

The girls giggled, and Caroline turned to her parents for confirmation.

"I don't know how he did it." Phineas shrugged, "It must have been magic."

"Fantastic show!" Charity said after her daughters had run off with their hats to greet the rest of the performers, "The girls loved it.  You work so well together."

She placed a hand gently on Phillip's upper arm, squeezed gently, and that was all the reassurance he needed.

He ducked his head, flushing slightly, as he whispered his thanks.  What he was truly thanking her for need not be said.

Leaving Phillip to look after the girls, Phineas and Charity quitted the circus to go out for dinner together at Charity's hotel.

"So," She sipped from her wine, "How are things between you and Phillip?"

Phineas smiled broadly, "Good.  I mean, he still has some uncertainties about it, but that is to be expected after the upbringing he's had.  We're taking it slowly."

"Slowly?" Charity laughed, "My, Phineas!  You really must be in love."

"Nothing stronger than love could take me away from you and the girls." He took her hand across the table, "But, are you -- "

"Yes." She rolled her eyes, "Now, do not make me repeat myself again.  At least not before we finish our meal."

"Yes ma'am."

\---

"Are you ok?" Phineas asked, stepping up alongside his partner after bidding his girls goodnight.  Phillip had brought Caroline and Helen to the hotel after they had started to doze off in one of the stands, and waited for Phineas to head back to the circus together.

"Of course." He smiled up at the other man, the truth of his answer evident in his brilliant blue eyes, "Are you?"

"I'm going home to spend the night with the person I love.  I'm better than ok."

Phillip rolled his eyes affectionately at the overly sentimental words, "You're also definitely drunk.  Which means, I may have to repeat what I'm going to say tomorrow."

"What are you going to say?" Phineas tied a knot in his scarf to better keep out the bitter wind.

"That I think you're right.  The office is too small for two of us, and it needs to be available as a well-presented space for conducting business."

"Your conclusion, dear Phillip?"

"My conclusion, P.T., is that we ought to find ourselves an apartment nearby.  Just something comfortable and private and..." He smiled fondly, letting the back of his hand brush against Phineas', "And ours."

\-----------


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for kudos and comments! I'm really happy that anyone is actually reading this, and hope that anyone who is will like this chapter. The plot is emerging and therefore some angst will be arriving on the scene. I warn that 'tis not beta'd, so apologise for any linguistic oddities. :/

\---

Phineas looked up as Phillip coughed three times into his sleeve, neither eyes nor pencil leaving the paper laid before him.  He frowned and put down the finance report he had been holding.

"You've had that cough for a while now."

Phillip didn't pause in his work as he absently assured his partner that it was nothing, quickly adding before Phineas could speak again, "I'm sure my voice just wasn't quite ready for so many shows.  It'll clear up soon...do you think it's gotten colder?"

"Don't change the sub--"

"Perhaps we should light a fire."

Phineas froze.  He knew what Phillip was doing.  Phillip knew that he knew what he was doing.  What's more, he seemed absolutely confident that it would work.  A distraction to throw off the elder ringmaster's concerns regarding his health.  Again.  It had already happened once over the past few weeks, when Phineas had expressed some unease when he saw his partner wince and curl in on himself after swinging down with practiced ease from one of the aerial hoops.  Phillip had said that he thought there was too much friction in one of the pulleys and forced the other ringmaster's attention in that direction.

And here it was again.  Phineas torn between two responsibilities.  That to his partner's physical health, which seemed fine aside from that strangely persistent cough and the incident on the hoop, and that to his mental well being in the wake of a near-death experience.

Until now, they had been making do with blankets and extra layers of clothing by unspoken agreement, but the wind was becoming an icy companion when it blew through the thin, drafty windows.  The unpleasant ventilation offered by those windows was the reason they had managed to get an apartment with reliable running water and gas so cheaply.  That and the damp creeping up several walls, and the little colony of mice hiding out in one corner of the bedroom.  Phillip had named the two adult ones Beatrice and Benedict because they seemed to squabble incessantly.  Phineas named the three children Theseus, Perseus, and Odysseus, because they did not.  On Phillip's pointing out the deficient logic on that point, Phineas had employed just the same tactic as Phillip was using now, musing aloud whether they could find something for the mice to do in their show, and the conversation had turned along yet more surreal avenues.

The hearth, to which Phineas' head had immediately turned on hearing the request, wasn't large or magnificent or, he thought entirely to himself, particularly safe.  It had no grate before it, and the chimney was at least partially obstructed by something stuck halfway up.  But it was cold, and Phillip had said...

"Really?" Phineas asked after an excessively long pause to weigh up the pros and cons of falling into his lover's trap.

"Yes.  I really do believe it's gotten colder." Phillip was still sketching onto the paper, but his motions were more anxious now, more determinedly a distraction than actual work.

"Alright." Phineas stood slowly and walked towards the storage cupboard where he had already packed away some coal and wood in case the fire was to be ever used.

"Do you need help?"

"Have you ever started a fire yourself before?"

"...No."

Phineas chuckled, "Then, no.  You keep doin' what you're doin'...what are you doing?"

He knew the answer, of course, but he was determined to keep his lover talking while he got the fire going.

"Looking over Mr. O'Malley's latest ideas for poster and flyer design.  They're very good, but I think need some updating.  Something new and different, or at least seemingly so.  We have some regular customers who return every season, usually several times, but it would do to bring some fresh faces in.  For that, we need new advertising."

"Regular customers?" Phineas hummed thoughtfully as he laid out the kindling and drew a match, "Perhaps we could give a discount to people who come frequently.  Some percentage off every ticket price...encourage more returns each season."

"You know, that's not a bad--" Phillip flinched involuntarily when the fire crackled to life behind him, "--idea."

"Of course it's not." Phineas cultivated a calm tone while watching his partner with cautious eyes, aware of every tensed up line of his figure, "I came up with it."

"What percentage discount?" Phillip's voice was so perfectly measured, his air and demeanour so calm, his composure maintained in the face of emotion in a manner Phineas had always marvelled at.

"Twenty."

"That's the same as family of performers." Phillip's breath had quickened, but his voice was still level, "Seven?"

"We need it to be an incentive, not an insult."

"Ten."

"Eighteen."

"Twelve."

There was a lull, a pause.  The signal that an agreement had been reached.  Phineas moved almost silently to come up behind his partner, still faced away from the fire, and wrapped his arms around him, resting his chin against the tense shoulder.

"Done."

Phillip twisted to catch his lips in a delicate kiss.  Fingers clutched desperately at the fabric of his partner's waistcoat in betrayal of the true extent of his anxiety.

"That the flyer design?" Phineas picked up the sheet of paper with one hand, the other kneading Phillip's back in reassurance.

Phillip coughed lightly, and didn't answer, mind clearly having drifted to some other avenue.  Phineas gave the back of his neck a squeeze and Phillip's eyes flicked to him.  He wetted his lips.

"Yes.  What do you think?"

"I think it needs colour."

"It's going to have to be printed in the hundreds, P.T." Phillip rolled his eyes, "Posters we can do in colour, but we can't afford to have colour on all the flyers.  Not right now."

"Not even red?"

Phillip jumped as the fire popped, closed his eyes, breathed, and looked back at Phineas with perfect composure.

"Maybe red for some of the lettering."

"And the border."

Phillip sighed, "And the border, if we must.  We might need to find a new printer though.  I think Jameson's are charging us above the normal rate.  Speaking of which, what do you think of the equipment repair invoice?  I'm sure the fees are higher now than before."

And, like that, they drifted into a full business meeting.  Phillip continued to flinch whenever the blaze behind him sputtered or crackled, and Phineas kept his lover within distance to reach out and touch should it ever seem to be getting too much.  They didn't sleep until the fire had dwindled to nothing, and the talk of finances and rehearsal timelines had faded to absent musings of ridiculous ideas they might deign to enact next time the urge to do something obscenely reckless came upon them.

Laying down together in their simple double bed, Phillip's voice cracked just a little as he murmured a goodnight to his lover, and Phineas was reminded of the cough Phillip had tried to dismiss earlier.  He made a mental note to keep en eye on it, but the sense of importance underlying that vow was forgotten by the morning.

\---

"Is _everyone_ charging us more since the fire?" Phineas asked irritably two days later, looking at the receipt for stilt repairs in his hands.  He hadn't been around for the last season of the show, and before their partnership became equal Phillip had handled almost all of the finances, so he honestly didn't know the answer, but he distinctly got that very impression.

"Essentially, yes." Phillip maintained his composure, "Even though it is an established fact that the fire was not our fault, every tailor, repairman, source of props or material, or anything that we might want to use in the show has raised their prices significantly."

"Why?  They act as though our losing everything was a personal affront to them."

"We didn't lose everything." Phillip replied calmly, "And we will have to manage if it means guaranteeing the sturdiness of props and costumes.  There are few shops that will even sell to us, let alone that we can trust, so I really don't think we can complain."

Phineas had opened his mouth to reply, when a jeering laugh from a carriage speeding by cut him short.  Some derogatory shouts emanated from it, about peanut shells and dirt and freaks...the usual litany.  The carriage kicked up a thick cloud of dirt as it veered close past them, the laughter from within an overtone of the beat of horses' hooves and the creak of wheels.

Phineas coughed a couple of times, blinking dirt from his eyes, and waving a hand until the dust cleared enough for him to see again.  He immediately prepared to launch into some comment on the atrocious behaviour of the high-brows, but was suddenly aware that Phillip was still coughing, harsh and rasping, a sound almost as if he was choking.  The younger man was half doubled over as the fit continued its relentless onslaught, supporting himself with one hand on the two newly repaired aerial hoops he had been holding.  Phineas was aware of people watching them, and he wished they would just look away so he could touch his partner without fear of their judgement.  Instead, all propriety dictated he could do was to hand Phillip a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his mouth.

When the coughs finally subsided and gave way to gasping breaths, Phillip straightened up, breathing deep through his nose in an attempt to regain control over his lungs.  He was flushed with exertion and embarrassment.

"Thank you." He smiled apologetically and automatically went to hand the handkerchief back to Phineas, but froze with his hand outstretched for a second before withdrawing it and quickly folding the cloth into his own pocket.  Phineas hadn't missed the strange sudden change in intention.  Nor had he missed the crimson stain now adorning his white handkerchief.

"We should get back." Phillip said quickly, already starting to resume the walk.  With his blood like ice and his mind whirling through endless terrible possibilities, Phineas could conjure no response.  He fell back into step beside Phillip, chancing a glance at the man.  His lips were a livid red, and he was certain that to kiss them now would be to taste copper.

\---

Since rehearsals still had yet to formally begin, Phillip being adamant that the performers be given at least a few weeks to relax and recover before starting earnest preparations for the next season, the tent was fairly empty when they arrived.  In the backstage area, W.D., O'Malley, and Deng Yan were seated on a circle of cushions engaged in a very one-sided card game, while nearby Lettie, Charles, and Walter lounged about on several sofas and chairs.  There were others of the troupe in little groups throughout the tent.  Some looked to be trying out things relevant to the show, while others were similarly just taking the time to relax.  Phineas, looking up into the stands, was sure he saw two people engaged in some romantic pursuit that he decided to pretend he had not witnessed.

"Good afternoon." Phillip greeted them all warmly, handing the two hoops he had been carrying to W.D., "We have some repaired props, and Miss. Lutz, your new dress is ready in the women's dressing area when you wish to try it on."

"Thanks." W.D. clapped the other man on his shoulder as he stood, "You wanna help me set these up?  Anne's busy at the moment, so I need an extra hand."

"Busy, is she?" Phillip replied with a sly smile, "You don't say..."

"Not a word, Carlyle.  I still don't like the guy."

"You don't like anyone, W.D."

"Neither do you."

Their banter faded as the men disappeared to ascend into the upper reaches of the tent, and the rest of the assembled group turned to Phineas with a unified air of appraisal after the man had failed to so much as take notice of their presence, his eyes following Phillip until he was gone from view.

"And, what's wrong with you, Barnum?" Lettie demanded, folding her arms and cocking an eyebrow in her trademarked 'no bullshit' expression.

"What?  Oh.  Nothing." Phineas smiled uneasily, and forced himself to tear his eyes away from where he had last seen his partner.  He lifted the repaired stilts in his hand, "Could you pass these onto O'Clancy when you see him?  And, O'Malley, perhaps you can stop swindling your coworkers and come look over these flyers with me?"

The Irishman smirked, took his earnings from his despairing companions, and followed the ringmaster to the office.  The meeting took a few hours, which was more or less as long as Phineas expected.  O'Malley was excellent at his job, and fully invested in providing what his ringmasters needed, so whenever they met over promotional materials, the discussions invariably became lengthy and detailed.  Phineas couldn't complain, usually he was please with the level of dedication, but right now he'd have rather been checking on his lover.  The image of Phillip's blood-reddened lips lingered in his mind through the afternoon.  When a knock on the door that could only be the man in question came at last, Phineas almost leapt up to answer it.

"W.D. said the twins have come down with colds.  I'm going to go check in on them." Phillip said, leaning up to press his lips against Phineas'.  They tasted of whisky.  Not blood.  A valiant attempt to hide the evidence, the elder ringmaster thought, but an obvious one.

"Alright, but we are having a conversation when you get back." Phineas warned, grabbing Phillip's arm before he could move away and kissing his hand, "I'll see you later."

\---

All well-intentioned thoughts of that conversation dissipated the instant Phineas opened the door to their apartment, and was confronted with the wave of nostalgic sensations that accompanied the scent of freshly baked pastry.  It was the smell of the patisserie first thing in the morning, a delectable fragrance so much more tantalising now than it had been as a child.  Back then he thought he would never get to taste the food that caused such a delectable aroma.  Now he knew that he would.  He stepped inside and hung his overcoat on the makeshift pegs they had fashioned from twisted metal pipes salvaged from the old Barnum Museum.

"Phin?" Phillip called out from the direction of the kitchen moments before his head, complete with a dusting of flour over his hair and left cheek, poked around the corner, "Welcome home."

"What's that smell?" Phineas asked, taking a step towards the kitchen only to be met partway in the passage by his partner.

"Dinner."

"Dinner?  You're cooking?!"

"Yes.  I'm cooking.  Now, it's going to be a while yet, so go and get dressed." He ordered, ushering Phineas towards the bedroom, "I'll come and get you when it's done.  Half an hour at most."

The younger man, clad in a frock coat beneath his red striped apron, continued to try and manhandle the other into their bedroom, Phineas turned to face his lover before he could be pushed all the way through the door.

"Phil, have you ever cooked before?"

"My repertoire is admittedly limited, but it is not entirely deficient." Phillip folded his arms in indignation, "I did spend some time living on my own before the fire.  I'm not as incapable as you might imagine."

Phineas laughed, ruffling his partner's hair playfully, delighting in the way it stood up at odd angles as a result. "Alright, Phil.  Let's see what you can do."

He turned to head into the bedroom, but paused suddenly and span around to pin Phillip against the far wall, pressing their lips together fervently.

"What was that for?" Phillip stared up at him with trusting blue eyes when they parted.

"Do I need a reason?"

"Decidedly not."

Phineas painted the closest approximation to a smile upon his face that he could manage, walked into the bedroom, closed the door, and rested against it, trying to steel his reeling mind.

Phillip tasted of blood.

\---

The church down the road had sounded nine before Phillip returned, knocking on the door politely.  During the time he had been waiting, which was a little over half an hour, the delicious smell of something baking had been making its way through the hall and into the room, calming Phineas' panicked mind.  He mused, as he changed into a clean shirt, whether the coughing up blood might not be as much of a problem as he thought.  He only knew one disease that caused that symptom, and Phillip certainly showed no other signs of consumption.  He seemed, aside from the cough, to be in perfect health.  A little tired lately, but it had been a busy season for him, and then everything between them now being so new and unfamiliar...perhaps Phineas was overthinking it.

Surely if it was serious, Phillip would tell him, and even if not it would be obvious.

Someone in the depths of a terrible illness showed signs of it.  Phineas was just projecting his past experiences on the present situation, melding those fears into the perpetual concern that Phillip would suddenly wake up and realise that Phineas didn't deserve a man like him.  That he was above Phineas in every way.  Kinder, more intelligent, better bred, less reckless, more selfless.  How the younger ringmaster had ever thought of his partner as anything other than an amicable acquaintance was a mystery that Phineas was afraid to probe too deep.

These thoughts had plagued Phineas as he dressed slowly, so distracted that he realised too late - after he had opened the door - that he hadn't even managed to tie his cravat in anything resembling a proper manner.  Phillip's attention was, of course, immediately drawn to the blunder.  But he wasn't disappointed.  He just cocked an eyebrow and raised his hands to undo the messy assemblage and retie it himself.

"Distracted?" He said, fingers deftly manoeuvring the silk into an elegant shape to match his own, "There.  Now, Mr. Barnum, might I escort you to dinner?"

He held out his right hand, the other tucked neatly behind his back.  Phineas was struck by how gentlemanly he looked, reminded of how well brought up his former apprentice truly was, of the elegance that he had been both born with and bred to possess.  The ringmaster placed his hand in that offered, feeling the peculiarity of having his on top.  But, he was curious and entertained by this entire display, and so allowed himself to be led by the shorter man to their main room where the cloth had been laid for dinner.

They had relatively little by way of fineries in the shared apartment.  Phillip had sold all of his valuable possessions to supplement the money he put into reforming their show.  At the time he'd explained the logic to his partner.

"The tent needs to be of fine material, the seating high quality and comfortable, the costumes and props well-made.  What's more, we need to ensure everyone is well-dressed outside of the performances." He had said this while sifting through piles of receipts documenting the various ways in which what little money he still had to his name was being drained, "If the show looks to be prosperous, then people will have confidence in its quality.  Any lack of affluent in appearance will result in reduced ticket sales.  The most money therefore must be invested in the show's outward appearance.  Next in import is that we establish some cache in case of future emergencies.  How valuable that is should be self-evident."

"And where does your personal comfort come into this?"

"It comes after we are back on our feet."

Phineas had been urged not to invest as deeply in the rebuild as his partner, and all attempts to do so after he had gone were refused.  He had a family to support, Phillip did not.  The justification seemed sound, but Phineas had a feeling it reflected more a sense of guilt on Phillip's part for having lived so long in the supposed comfort of aristocracy.  Things were different after Phineas returned, and Phillip was happy to live in moderate comfort with his lover, and be in possession of the essential household goods with one or two added luxuries such as their bedding and the silver candle holder now stood in the centre of their small dining table.  The plates at either end of the table and the cutlery beside them were of the simple fashion of all their homewares, and in lieu of a table cloth Phillip had found some offcuts of a curtain that, sewn together, more or less covered the wooden surface.

"What is this?" Phineas asked, a laugh in his voice.

"This is the table for dinner." Phillip pulled out a chair for him before heading the short distance to the stove, "And  _this_ is dinner."

He placed a large plate in the centre of the table, which bore the source of that delicious scent that now filled their apartment.

"Strudel?!"

"Strudel."

"You cooked strudel for dinner?"

"Apple strudel." Phillip nodded, "Admittedly not the most conventional of meals, but I hardly think convention has much bearing on our lives any more.  And, Caroline once told me it was your favourite...she wasn't wrong was she?  You do like--"

Phineas stood and pulled his lover into a tight embrace, "She was perfectly accurate.  It is my favourite.  Thank you."

Phillip's features gave way to a rare, broad smile.  Phineas was pretty sure he could feel his heart melting at the sight.  Certainly any thoughts of confronting Phillip on the earlier incident were thrown far, far into the recesses of his mind.  He would not ruin this evening, he would not do anything to wash that smile from Phillip's face.

The impromptu chef served them both, and watched anxiously as his partner took the first taste of the pastry.

"It's delicious." Phineas beamed with his mouth still half-full, then swallowed and continued, "Really good.  Where did you get the recipe?"

Phillip seemed to let go a breath he had been holding, "Anne gave it to me."

"I'll have to pass my compliments onto Anne tomorrow." Phineas said, taking another bite, "Speaking of whom, I hear she has a suitor."

"The doctor's clerk, yes." Phillip replied, "Didn't you see them up in the stands today?  He's a good man.  Both W.D. and I have vetted him extensively, and despite W.D.'s reservations, I honestly think he'll be good for her."

They continued the meal in pleasant conversation.  Phineas didn't miss the occasional cough that slipped past Phillip's lips, but every time when the man's own handkerchief was brought to his mouth to cover it, he was relieved not to see more blood, and by the end of the meal his concerns were pushed too far to the back of his mind to impede at all his enjoyment of the evening.  When they did the dishes together, he thought he saw his partner wince just slightly, bracing himself on the edge of the sink with one hand making an abortive movement towards his chest, but Phillip righted himself so quickly that Phineas allowed himself to be convinced it was nothing more than an effect of the wine they had shared over dinner, and his mind remained easy over the matter.

"Now, Mr. Carlyle," Phineas held out his hand, still a little soapy from the washing up, "Might  _I_ escort  _you_ to the bedroom?"

Phillip obligingly placed his hand into Phineas' calloused palm, allowing a reversal of their roles from some hours before, no doubt taking pleasant delight in the aesthetic value of the inversion.

Up until that point, they had slept in each other's arms, kissed, caressed...all through at least one layer of clothing.  Phineas was happy to take it slowly.  Phillip needed slow to allow his mind time to deal with the dichotomy of societal opinions and his desires.

He let Phillip lead their pace, and tonight he was ready to take a step further.

The younger man carefully shut the bedroom door after they stepped past the threshold, and turned to place both hands against Phineas' chest, toying briefly with the lapels of his jacket, before grasping them gently and ghosting the fabric off of his lover's form.  He then moved to the waistcoat, slipping each button free in turn as Phineas leant in to start peppering his temples and forehead with soft kisses.  The skilled fingers began to shake a little when he began work on Phineas' shirt, and the older man calmly, gently, took over.

Phillip said nothing as his partner's chest was exposed, but leant forward and pressed hot lips to his clavicle.  Phineas closed his eyes and took a deep breath, losing himself to the scent of Phillip's hair as the younger man brushed soft hands against his torso, caressing them upwards to slip beneath his shirt, still clinging to his shoulder shoulders.  The shirt slid down his arms to pool on the floor about his feet, and Phillip's lips were once again on his skin.  Phineas allowed himself to get lost in the touch of his lover, in the firmness of his hands and the attentions of his lips.  Phillip, though new to these experiences with a man, had not been called a scandal by those of his former class for no reason.  He was not unfamiliar with pleasuring another soul with the caresses of his hands.  That combined with his ability to read Phineas' body perfectly, and adjust his ministrations as his explorations identified just what it was that his partner desired.  It was not long, therefore, before Phineas felt himself losing control, and he quickly eased Phillip back with as much grace as he could muster.

A soft kiss to the younger man's forehead reassured him that he had done nothing wrong.

Then Phineas placed his hands against Phillip's chest, undid the top button of his waistcoat and paused there long enough for the other to ask him to stop.  But Phillip's blue eyes locked with his in silent permission to continue.  He felt those eyes still watching him, examining his face, as his waistcoat and shirt were carefully removed.  The moment that well-toned torso was revealed, Phineas understood the anxiety with which his partner had been scrutinising his reaction.

Phineas had scars of his own.  Accidents from working on the railroads, scrapes from his less-than-comfortable childhood.  They were dotted about his body here and there, mostly not visible unless one was looking, and looking really rather close up.  He'd wager none other than Charity and, now, Phillip might have ever seen them.

But Phillip's body was far more marred than his own, despite his affluent upbringing.  To Phineas' disgust, he realised that he had seen most of these at the time of their inception.  The raised white gash just above Phillip's left hip.  That had been a deep, bleeding laceration in which Phineas thought he had seen the glint of some metal shrapnel as he dragged Phillip from beneath the burning rubble.  The irregular, raised, reddish purple shapes spreading like taught mats over his chest and arms from the severe burns he had suffered.  Areas of skin that had been too hot for Phineas to touch when he lifted Phillip from the ground and carried him out.

There were others too.  Thin, straight lines adorning his sides, snaking round from his back.  Phineas knew the weapon that caused those, and he knew too the hand that made them.  He'd seen that very hand.  He'd seen the cruel man from across the street, only moments before Phillip bolted into an alley to hide from his view.  From his scorn.  From, Phillip had admitted with shame, his disappointment.  Phineas found those scars, milder and less obtrusive, so much worse than the burns.  The remnants of injury dealt by one who was meant to protect and raise this man.  As a father himself, the notion sickened Phineas more than anything.

"Sorry." Phillip mumbled, suddenly drawing Phineas from his reflections.

He had been staring.

Taking in Phillip's scars, dwelling on their origins, he realised, while ignoring the man who bore them.

"They're horribly unattractive.  An ugly reminder of all the times I messed up." Phillip whispered, "Of the times I let people down."

"Let people down." Phineas echoed, "Who did you let down?"

"My father.  My schoolmaster." He paused, "You."

"Me?"

"You put the circus in my care, and it was destroyed.  Because of me.  Because I couldn't handle the protestors.  You almost lost everything because of my inability to meet your expectations.  I sometimes lie to myself and pretend it's otherwise, which is of course dishonest...but every time I see these..." He flicked his eyes down to the white scar over his left hip, "Every time I see them I'm reminded of the reality, and I don't--"

"Phil." Phineas pressed his palm against that same scar with one hand, the other clasping the side of his partner's neck, thumb stroking over his jaw, "I let _you_ down.  I left you to deal with an escalating situation alone.  I nearly lost far more than the circus because of it.  And, in the end, was it not you who saved us?  Who saved me?"

"Saved you?" Phillip looked incredulous, "Phin, how exactly did I save anyone?"

"You mean, aside from financing the entire operation of rebuilding our enterprise?"

"That was nothing more than the inevitable consequence of good business sense."

"Perhaps, but then you gave me this." Phineas placed his hand over Phillip's heart, the skin uneven where a burn stretched inwards from his shoulder.

He interlaced their fingers and brought Phillip's hand over his own heart.

"And allowed me to offer you this."

They stayed that way in silence for several minutes.  Phineas could feel the rapid beating of Phillip's heart beneath his hand, as those brilliant blue eyes gazed up into his searchingly.

"You came in after me." Phillip whispered at last, "You would have stopped anyone else going in there, but--"

He turned away to cough into the crook of his elbow, as if his lungs were suddenly refilled with the smoke of the terrible blaze.

"But you came in anyway.  That was stupid and reckless."

"I would do things far more stupid and far more reckless to keep you safe."

Phillip chuckled, "I don't doubt it.  You're a selfless man, Mr. Barnum."

"No.  I'm perfectly selfish." Phineas reached up to run a hand through Phillip's hair, "I refuse to lose a part of myself.  I'd do anything to keep you at my side."

"You need not go so far." Phillip backed them towards the bed, pushing Phineas down against the sheets by his shoulders and joining their lips tenderly, "You'd have a hard time getting rid of me now."

\---

"You look awful." Phillip stated, taking in the image of his partner bedridden with a cold.  In the couple of days it took for word to spread that two of their company had fallen ill, that same illness had made its own way through the troupe, and one by one, each member of the circus fell victim.  That was, aside from Walter, who seemed blissfully immune, and O'Clancy, whose general high altitude apparently allowed him to stay out of reach of the infection.

"Phil..." Phineas whined pitifully, "I'm sick."

"Yes, dear, I noticed." The younger man smirked, his own voice a little nasal, and handed his partner a mug of some sweet-smelling warm liquid, "Drink this.  It'll make you feel better."

"What is it?"

"Tea with honey and lemon.  My third governess gave it to me when I was ill."

"That was nice of her." Phineas sniffled a few times before sipping at the tea.

"It also got her fired, so not quite as nice  _for_ her." Phillip sat on the bed and took a long drink from his own cup, "No rehearsals until this cold is quite done.  We can't have anyone attempting potentially dangerous acrobatics without their full faculties about them."

Phineas hummed in agreement.

"I've sent word to everyone, but will go out to ensure it is kept to this afternoon."

"How are you not sick?" Phineas grumbled, sniffling again for good measures, "I'm the more hardy one."

"That may be so, but as you like to remind me, I grew up among the swells.  The gentry do not get ill.  It's unbecoming." Came the amused reply, "So I learned to cover up all but the worst of illnesses, from a mild cold to severe hypothermia.  And, I must say, I'm really quite good at it."

"Show off." Phineas glared before blowing his nose loudly before flopping down dramatically on the pillows, almost spilling his tea all over the bed.

"I learned from the best." Phillip patted his outstretched leg beneath the sheets, winking as he stood and stalked from the room.  Phineas swore there was a cocky swagger to the steps, which he begrudged to find utterly alluring.

That afternoon, Phillip did as promised and went to check on their troupe, returning with a report on the numbers ill, their state of illness, and some estimate of when he thought they might be able to start rehearsals.

"Give it a week.  We were having this time essentially as a break anyway, so it won't dent our timeline in the slightest." He had brought some soup from Anne, and was dishing it out into two bowls, "By far the worst affected seems to be you and our resident strongman, although I think you may just be being over-dramatic."

He turned back to grin at his stuffy-nosed lover playfully.

"You're little ruse is slipping, Carlyle." Phineas glared up at him as a bowl was placed on the table and a spoon shoved into his hand, "Sounding a little breathless there."

"Perhaps it's just the exertion of putting up with your grumpy self." He sat opposite Phineas, clearing his throat, "In a few days time, you'll be better, and then you can go back to being the ray of sunshine that you usually are."

"And you can go back to being moody and serious."

"Precisely." A bright smile flashed across his features, "Can't come too soon."

\---

Just as predicted, the worst of Phineas' cold was over within three days, but the annoying lingering cough persisted for nearly a week after.  It was the same for the rest of the company, and within a month everyone had caught the cold, gotten rid of it, and ceased any sniffing, sneezing, or coughing.

All except Phillip.

Despite his managing to hide the cold symptoms adeptly, the cough that followed had persisted relentlessly.  It had outlasted the initial illness itself and grown harsher, more abortive, more draining.  Every time a fit struck him, Phineas was terrified the young ringmaster was going to suffocate from sheer inability to take in air while cough after cough wracked his body.  He did his best to hide it, leaving rooms or going outside under some pale excuse in order to give in to another onslaught.  Specks of blood on his shirt sleeves, the taste of it on his lips, told Phineas that more often than not these fits were accompanied by some loss of blood.  It might have explained why Phillip was always so cold, and why his skin had become ashen, almost blue-tinged.  It didn't account for the high temperature, which Phineas monitored by pressing his lips to his lover's forehead as he lay sleeping long after the dawn with which he usually woke.

In less than two weeks, Phillip had deteriorated rapidly from having a mild persistent cough and seasonal cold, to something so much more terrifying.  As exhaustion seemed to overcome him too powerfully for the pretence of health to be maintained for more than a few hours at a time, Phillip gave up any effort to hide his condition from Phineas, although he begged that they do whatever they could to keep it from the troupe.

"It took a long time for them to trust me at all.  I don't want them to think less of me for  _this_.  For not being able to cope with a small illness."

Phineas wanted to argue, to insist that this was no 'small illness', but as always with Phillip, argument had turned to bargaining.

Phineas would keep it from the troupe and help Phillip hide it, as long as Phillip went with him to the doctor at the earliest available opportunity.

Hiding it from their extended family was relatively straightforward for the time being.  All it took on Phineas' part was to read his lover's body language and identify when he was feeling faint or about to suffer from another coughing fit.  He would then to tell him to go fetch something, or look over some documents, or undertake some other false errand, all so that he could wheeze out of earshot of everyone else.  Aside from that, Phillip took care of the deceit himself.  Headaches and chest pains, which he had eventually admitted to Phineas to have been experiencing, seemed entirely absent to a casual observer.  He stood, moved, and spoke as if he was at most suffering from that same minor cold the rest had caught.  His laboured breathing was suppressed, exhaustion hidden beneath multiple cups of coffee, and perpetual chill dealt with by wearing one of Phineas' larger waistcoats over his own, and moving from a cotton to a woollen coat.

The greater challenge was faced in managing to find opportunity to see a doctor.  Despite Phillip's genuine willingness to comply with his lover's request, external influences forced a delay in action.  Some of their group had ended up in an altercation with protestors, and both sets of men ended up in jail.  Phineas had to bail them out while Phillip talked with solicitors and police, taking care of all the potential legal consequences of the matter.  The event was drawn out over three long, exhausting days, but eventually came down to both parties submitting a fine for disturbing the peace, but no one being charged with anything more significant.

It wasn't unusual.  Rarer now than it had once been, but still not unusual.

But it was inconvenient.

"Tomorrow." Phineas said, settling into bed beside Phillip and handing him a cup of cocoa, "Immediately after rehearsal, we are going to see Dr. Stokes."

"No complaints from me." Phillip said, his voice weak and raspy and just  _wrong_ , "I confess to being a little tired of this."

 Phineas pressed his lips to Phillip's forehead, feeling it too hot.

"Try to drink as much of that as you can." He nodded to the mug in Phillip's unsteady hands, "You've hardly eaten today."

Phineas tried to hide his disappointment when the man handed the cup back after a few sips, mumbling a tired apology for being unable to manage any more.  Phineas placed it down on the bedside table, and lay down to wrap Phillip in his arms.  His skin was cold, and he shivered despite the body heat and blankets, right up until he fell into a sleep that was deeper than usual while it lasted.  Which, Phineas guessed by the blue-grey light of breaking dawn outside, must have been at least four hours.  His own rest was abruptly interrupted by frantic coughing beside him.  Immediately he was round at the other side of the bed, kneeling on the floor beside Phillip, helping to steady him as he almost choked into the sleeve of his night shirt for several minutes straight.  The fit finally subsided to leave the younger man heaving desperately for air.

His sleeve was stained crimson.  His lips, too, a livid red.

Stark against his ashen skin.

"I'm sorry." He rasped, whole body trembling, "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright." Phineas pulled Phillip into his arms, "It's not your fault."

Until Phillip's trembling gave way to shivers and his breath evened, even if it was still short and hoarse, Phineas remained there, holding his lover close.

"I'll get some water." He said, releasing Phillip and kissing his forehead softly.

It was even hotter than before.

After urging Phillip to drink most of a glass of water, Phineas instructed him to go back to sleep, promising that he wasn't going to leave while Phillip slept.  He sat up in the bed for the rest of the night with one hand tightly grasping his lover's.

He was no stranger to the ways in which a disease could ravage a person.  Strip them of everything that defined them, leaving a ghost long before the illness had even claimed their life.  Phillip was strong.  He was still for the most part himself.  Night was more difficult.  Laying down seemed to amplify every element of his illness, and in the shadowed bedroom, he seemed to almost be ready to give in to the pull of mental decay.  But Phineas was there to prevent it.  To pull him back from that abyss.  The disease could attack his beloved partner's body, but Phineas would protect his mind and his soul from its terrible grasp.  Somewhere in his thoughts, in some hopeful place, Phineas told himself that if Phillip didn't let the illness take away who he was, then it couldn't take away his life.  He tried to believe that one must precede the other, and so to prevent the first was to prevent the second.

He clung desperately to that hope until the terrible sound of his lover's broken coughs once more filled the room.

\---

Rehearsals were still in their early stages, so most of the performers were working on specific new elements of their own acts.  This allowed Phillip considerable capacity for hiding his ailment from the troupe, as he could come and go without much notice, and spend his time surveying others rather than practicing himself.  He avoided the shrewd eyes of Anne and Lettie as much as possible without that itself seeming suspicious.  Phineas kept Phillip always within view, save for when he left the tent for brief moments to succumb to the indisguisable element of his illness, and he was honestly quite proud of how effectively he was able to keep hidden from the others his divided attention and concerns about his partner.  He counted the minutes as they passed, reminding himself that the reward for maintaining this pretence was finally getting the man he loved the medical attention he desperately needed.

The new trick that the Wheelers had devised with Deng Yan, involving what amounted to an aerial display of knife throwing, had Phineas unable to suppress an almost genuine grin.  He saw Phillip excuse himself from O'Clancy and Charles, with whom he had been working, and leave the tent.

His smile faltered.

"It looks great, but I'm watching it now without anything else particularly going on." Phineas said, eyes flicking between the performers and the spot where Phillip had just exited, "What can we do to make it stand out more in the show?  Something attention grabbing.  Extravagant."

"Well, there was something we were thinking about, but it's a little unpolished." Anne suggested, looking to her companions for their approval.

"Rehearsals are for polishing.  Let's see."

The three went back up into the rigging and displayed a, slightly fumbling, variation on the same trick.

Phillip still hadn't come back in.

Phineas smiled at them as they came down to see his reaction, Anne helping Deng to smoothly descend on the rope.

" _That's_ the one!  Practice it, polish it up, and we'll have it dazzling the world in no time." Phineas said with a weak imitation of his usual enthusiasm.  His eyes were still on the last place he had seen Phillip.  Every time the man left, until now, he was back within a couple of minutes.  It hadn't been too much longer now, but something felt decidedly off.

Phineas excused himself and jogged towards the same exit Phillip had used.  He was aware of the attention it might draw, but didn't care.  Something was wrong.  He felt it in his bones.  The apprehension growing as he neared the edge of the tent.

He stepped out into the sullen daylight and made it barely three steps beyond the threshold before his eyes rested upon his lover's body, unmoving on the ground.

"Phillip!" Phineas sprinted to fall on his knees at his side.  He placed a hand on his neck, feeling for a pulse.  Leant over his body, listening for a breath, praying to feel even the ghost of one on his cheek.

There was none.

He wasn't breathing.

"Phillip?" The ringmaster repeated, pulling the limp body into his arms, "Phillip.  Breathe.  Please breathe.  Just--"

His words became merged with the sound of footfalls behind and around him, of frantic voices, panicked.  All talking too quickly to be heard, to be distinguished.  They faded into a distant buzz and all Phineas seemed to be able to comprehend was the absence of Phillip's breath.

The body was pulled from his arms.  He fought to reclaim it, but strong hands held him back.

Someone had their hands pressed over Phillip's chest.  They pressed down hard.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

On five, Phillip coughed, expelling thick blood from his mouth as his entire body seemed to spasm back to life.

He took a deep, hoarse gasp.

Then he started to breath.

It was fast and strained, but it was  _there_.

Phineas wanted to reach out for him, but someone was lifting the still limp form from the ground and carrying his love away.  Another someone pulled Phineas to his feet.

He stumbled and was caught.  His legs seemed not to function quite right.  They were numb and distant and unimportant in comparison to the form Phillip disappearing from view in the hold of someone else.

He must have said something, recognised his voice beyond the buzzing and humming of incessant meaningless noise.  He couldn't hear it anymore, the precious breath, and fear gripped him like claws of ice tearing through his insides.  The voice by his ear spoke, and they were moving.  He was being led.

Somewhere familiar.

Somewhere he knew.

 

They were taken to a room.  The door opened and shut, and he could hear it again.

 

The blessed sound of life.

Phillip's life.

He was placed in a seat.  A hand on his shoulder held him steady or stopped him from moving or tried to comfort him.

Phillip was placed on a bed, or a long chair, or something.

It was all so uncertain.

But the bed was familiar.

It was the chaise langue.

The very same one he and Phillip had lain on that first night they spent in each other's arms.

And now it held Phillip alone.  Ashen and unmoving, but for the desperate, erratic breaths.

\---


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared for some Victorian medicine! Please don't try this at home, folks.

\---

As lucidity returned to Phineas, it came in the company of a litany of voices shifting imperceptibly from the indistinct humming that had been filling his brain until now, into comprehensible words and sentences said in familiar, yet unidentifiable, tones.

"How did this happen?  He wasn't unwell was he?"

"He had been looking a little pale..."

"He said it was just a cold."

"Wait.  Quiet...no, it's alright.  I thought he had stopped breathing again."

"It doesn't sound right, does it.  His breathing.  It's like he's choking or-or..."

Phineas stood on shaky legs from the chair, his brain catching up with the sounds and sights confronting him.  The group gathered near the chaise langue turned their eyes on him as he walked uneasily past them.  Towards the prone form belonging to the man he loved.  Ignoring the noises coming from that inconsequential gaggle, words perhaps but not a one comprehended, he dropped to his knees beside his love and reached out to press a hand against his ashen cheek.  Phillip was laid out in a half-supine position with his upper body propped up at an angle by several pillows and bundled blankets.

Whoever mentioned his breath had been right.  It sounded wrong.  Although less of a choking sound, Phineas thought.  More like drowning.

"Anne's back with Dr. Stokes." W.D. crouched beside Phineas to give this report, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "They're just tying up the cart horses.  Perhaps you should..."

The other man let his words trail off.  Phineas understood the meaning.

"Yes.  Of course." He muttered, numbly pressing a kiss to Phillip's forehead, and stood, stepping away from the body to stand at the same distance as the rest of the company.  He felt sick.  Their doctor might accept 'freaks' but there was no guarantee he would extend the same unbiased treatment to men 'going against nature', as it was so often put.  People were strange and illogical with their prejudices, and this was no time to be testing those of the doctor in whose hands he was placing Phillip's life.

A small hand pressed against his leg in reassurance.  Phineas mustered an appreciative smile cast down at Charles even if the reassurance had made no impact on his hazy mind.

"You going to be alright, Barnum?" Lettie was at his other side, looking over him sharply, "We can take care of this if you--"

"No.  I have to be here." Phineas interrupted, then took a deep breath and tried to right himself, blinking away tears he hadn't even noticed forming, "As his partner, Dr. Stokes will expect me to be here.  How are the others?  I presume their's some gossip spreading around already?"

Lettie snorted, "You think?"

"Try to shut it down." Phineas ordered, "Tell them that Phillip has taken ill, but that it is no cause for concern and rehearsals are to continue as normal.  As soon as more is known, it will be relayed."

She nodded and made to leave, but the woman turned back at the door, "We're all here.  If you need anything."

"Thank you." Phineas tried, but he couldn't accompany the words with a smile.  He simply couldn't bring about the expression any more.  Not with Phillip half-drowning so near by, yet untouchable.  The doctor entered just as she exited, bustling in with a leather case in his hand and Anne trailing anxiously in his wake.  She immediately wandered into her brother's arms, terror written on her features as she watched the doctor take to his knees beside Phillip.

Dr. Stokes was an amiable middle-aged man with no wife or children, essentially in wedlock with his work.  He was the one doctor in New York who Phineas and Phillip trusted entirely with the welfare of their employees, a trust recently strengthened by Anne's close friendship with his clerk.  Unlike the majority of physicians in the city, Dr. Stokes had never once treated any of their troupe any differently from every other man or woman he might treat.  He saw them as human, as people, and for that reason had become the doctor to whom every member of the circus went.  He wasn't the best in the city, nor the cheapest, but he knew his business and was invested in helping his patients however he could.

"What happened?" The doctor was stooped over with his stethoscope, listening to each side of Phillip's chest in turn.

"He collapsed," Phineas replied, quietly surprised by his ability to speak evenly, "Stopped breathing.  Miss Yan pumped against his chest and he started breathing again, but it doesn't sound right."

The doctor raised an eyebrow towards the woman in question, who smiled politely back at him, "I throw knives for a living.  Mishaps happen."

"Quite so." Replied Stokes uneasily, returning attention to his patient, "His left lung sounds like it has fluid in it.  Has he--"

As the man was speaking, Phillip's breathing shortened and became choked, abortive, and ultimately less of a breath and more a gargle.  The doctor dropped his stethoscope and violently wrenched open his satchel, pulling out a large needle and a knife.

"Get a bowl, or bucket!  Anything of the sort!" He ordered, cutting away at the fabric of Phillip's shirt.

Phineas grabbed the porcelain basin from the side.

"Hold it by his chest."

He obeyed.

Phillip was still choking, still drowning.

His body writhed as if struggling against some unseen restraints.

Phineas' hands shook, the basin shaking with them.

Stokes stabbed the needle into the side of Phillip's chest.

Nothing.

Not a person dared move, dared breathe.

Phillip continued to struggle, and gargle, and slowly drown.

And then the blood began to trickle out from the tube and into the basin.  Phillip took a gasping, clear breath, long and deep and desperate.  His breaths evened out then, hoarse and rasping, but continuous and more recognisable for what they were.

Breathes.

Each one a sign of life.

Phineas stared at the blood in the basin.  His hands shook still.

Someone - W.D. - took the receptacle from him, and he snapped back suddenly to awareness.  To the knowledge that the doctor was there, addressing them, one hand still holding the tube with which he had just punctured in the side of Phillip's chest.

"Can you get the roll of bandages from my satchel?" The question was directed generally, and Phineas quickly obeyed.

"What was that?" He asked, rummaging through in search of the white cloth he presumed to be bandages.

"The aftermath of some trauma to his airways." The doctor carefully pulled the tube out as the blood flow trickled to a stop, placing a folded piece of cloth over the wound, "But not the cause of his illness, I'm afraid."

"He inhaled a lot of smoke in the fire at our old theatre." Phineas said because it seemed relevant.  The doctor hummed thoughtfully.

"And how has he been since then?"

"I-" Phineas paused, "He had a cough for a while after, but then I left for some time, so I..."

"The cough continued." Anne said quickly, "It wasn't very bad, but it never really stopped after the fire.  He didn't exactly take a break to recover."

"Why does that not surprise me?" The doctor had met their ringmaster a couple of times, when he'd been treating other members of the troupe, and evidently had clocked onto the man's sense of duty and responsibility overriding common sense, self-preservation, and other such useful faculties.

"However, a cough such as you suggest wouldn't cause damage like this." The doctor finished cleaning and checking the hole in Phillip's chest, "Ladies, if you could please excuse us?  We are going to have to remove Mr. Carlyle's shirt to bandage this up correctly."

Anne was ready to protest, the words on her lips, but Deng grabbed her by the sleeve and led her from the room, leaving the men to help slip the clothes from Phillip's top half.  The myriad scars seemed so much brighter, angrier, against the extreme pallor of Phillip's skin.  Phineas heard W.D. curse under his breath at the sight.  He might have had the same reaction now were this his first witness of the damage.

With the patient bandaged up, Dr. Stokes listened once again to Phillip's chest, hummed in a satisfied manner and pulled out a pocket thermometer to take a recording of his temperature, which he noted on the cuff of his sleeve.

"Has he been unwell recently?"

"He had a cold." W.D. said, "Most all of us did, but that pretty much cleared up over a week ago.  He's seemed tired, but other than that--"

"It's more than that." Phineas interjected, "He's had a fever and bad cough since the cold, and kept coughing up blood."

At the alarmed expressions of both Charles and W.D., Phineas solemnly added, "He wanted to hide it.:

The doctor gave another hum, thoughtful and pensive.

"Has he complained of any headaches or chest pains?"

"Over the past week he's mentioned them, although I think they've been going on for longer than that." Phineas drummed his fingers against his leg in agitation, "We should have come to see you weeks ago.  When he first--"

"Regrets help nothing, Barnum." Charles interrupted, "Future, not past."

Phineas smiled fondly at him, "Right.  You're right."

"Has he said what the chest pains are like?"

"Umm, sharp?  And burning." Phineas replied, "He didn't really talk much about them.  Mostly just pretended they weren't there."

 The doctor nodded resolutely, as if that one piece of information determined everything.

It might have done, or it might have just been a punctuation to the already formatted diagnosis.  Phineas was no doctor.  He didn't know the symptoms of a cold from the flu from a long walk in an icy wind.  He had some idea of how to deal with a stuffy nose or headache, but not  _this_.

Stokes cast a glance to the other two occupants of the room, and Phineas, reading his uncertainty, addressed it immediately.

"They can hear whatever you will have to say."

The doctor nodded and continued.

"Is Mr. Carlyle in communication with his family?"

"No.  They disowned him a long time ago." Phineas can't quite keep the contempt from his voice.

"Is there someone who can assume responsibility for his care?"

"I can." The reply is quick and resolute, earning an interested flicker of expression across the doctor's features.

"Very well." Dr. Stokes checked the bandages one more time, listened again to Phillip's chest, and began to pack his satchel, standing straight before he addressed Phineas again, "I have encountered some truly extraordinary people treating your company, Mr. Barnum, but this might just be the most baffling case yet.  Mr. Carlyle has very severe damage to his respiratory tract, no doubt as a long-term unaddressed consequence of the fire.  That alone ought to have had him on a prolonged period of bed rest.  How he managed an entire season of performances is beyond me.  However, the draining of blood has cleared up the immediate concerns in that area.  The blood seems to have been collecting over time, so this will need to be carefully monitored lest it happen again.  Keep note of his breathe sounds, and any oddities should be brought to my attention."

He paused to frown down at the patient once more and shake his head.

"The greater concern is pneumonia."

"Pneumonia?" Phineas echoed, voice breaking, "He has pneumonia?"

"Based on your description of his symptoms these past weeks, he developed it at the same time as that cold.  How in God's name he's been going about his business for this long since is beyond me.  By all accounts, he should have been virtually incapacitated by the chest pains alone from within a week of developing the illness."

"What's the treatment?" Phineas asked hopefully, "You have a treatment for it, don't you?"

Phineas had to fight the urge to take up his partner's hand.  He looked so small and vulnerable, lying there just beyond his reach.

"Mr. Barnum," The doctor began seriously, "Are you certain that you are in a position to take care of Mr. Carlyle's treatment?  The condition is serious, and requires a strict course of medication and restorative measures if he is to have a chance at recovery.  If you are unable to offer this, then he might do better in a hospital.  I do, however, understand your reservations about trusting any of your employees to unknown medical professionals, so it would be--"

"I can take care of him." Phineas said, "Whatever he needs."

"Very good.  The medication is not cheap, I warn you, and the treatment plan must be followed absolutely."

"Like I said, whatever he needs.  I can cover the cost, and I'll take care of the treatment." Phineas reiterated urgently.

"Mr. Barnum.  I am not one to provide false hopes." Dr. Stokes looked between him and the patient, "Pneumonia is a serious condition, and many do not survive it.  The survival rate is better in adults and men than in women and children, but I cannot promise a cure.  All I can promise is that I will offer every treatment I know of to help."

Phineas nodded, swallowing thickly, "Of course.  Thank you, doctor."

"Might I add one more piece of advice?" The doctor said, rather than asked, "If it is possible, I would recommend taking Mr. Carlyle away from the city for his treatment.  The dust and fumes of industrialisation are a poor remedy for the ailing lungs.  Some fresh country air would might make all the difference to his ability to overcome this."

"I understand.  I'll look into it."

"Excellent.  I will have my clerk bring you instructions on treatment and the medication later today." He quickly drew out a sheet of thin paper - an invoice - and wrote a few lines on it, before handing it to Phineas, "This will cover the first batch of medication.  I won't charge for the consultation today seeing as it was an emergency.  If you do go away and find yourself running short of the medicine, be sure to write to me at least a week before you run out entirely, and I shall have some sent immediately to your location.  Continuous treatment is essential in this case."

The doctor picked up his case and offered a small, kind, pitying smile, "Take my carriage, which waits outside.  Bring him home and get him in a hot bath to start the treatment.  Immediately after, wrap him up tightly and keep him warm to start the sweating process.  It's an important part of the recovery."

With those words and a final sympathetic glance towards the patient, Dr. Stokes tipped his hat and left to return to his surgery on foot.

Phineas waited a few moments until he could no longer hear the man's footsteps outside, and finally crouched beside his partner.

"As dramatic as ever, Phil," He whispered, pressing their foreheads together, "Must you really launch into every endeavour with this level of commitment.  A simple cold would have sufficed.  Well, you don't have to worry.  I'll take care of everything.  You're going to be absolutely fine."

With a kiss to the cheek, Phineas carefully manoeuvred Phillip enough that W.D. could help replace his shirt and wrap a coat around his shoulders.  He took up one of the blankets that had been beneath the younger man's head and swathed him in that too, before picking Phillip up and carrying him out of the room towards the waiting carriage.  O'Malley was already there, holding the door open and talking with the driver, while several of the performers were gathered outside and at the tent fringes to watch the bearing away of Ringmaster the second.

W.D. helped Phillip into the carriage, allowing Phineas a moment to turn to the assemblage of their troupe.

"As I'm sure you have noticed, Mr. Carlyle is unwell.  While I am sure he will recover in time, he is going to need my care until he does so." He bit his lip, surveying the faces in search for any indication that he might face a problem.  There was none.  These were family.  They cared for their ringmaster.

"I will work out a course of action today and relay it tomorrow.  But, if you could just bear with me until then.  If you would resume rehearsals now, I'll let you know as soon as I know anything more about what is to happen."

With that, he hopped into the carriage, taking over from W.D. in supporting Phillip's limp body.  O'Malley followed a few moments after.

 

"Don't worry." W.D. said as he closed the carriage door, "We have you covered.  Whatever you need, you and Carlyle are family.  Family looks after each other."

\---

Phillip didn't wake up once on the journey home.  He still didn't wake as Phineas and O'Malley bore him into the apartment and lay him upon the bed.  He was so cold, and so unbearably unresponsive, that Phineas might have thought him dead were it not for the constant soft sound of his shallow breathing.

O'Malley was told that he could leave, but replied that he would stay.  At least until the doctor's clerk arrived.  In case any help was needed with the treatment, speaking of which, he would get a hot bath going.

He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Phineas alone with his lover.

"Phineas?" Phillip's tired voice broke the heavy silence after some minutes.

The ringmaster spun quickly to face the origin of that voice, so quiet.  Barely more than a breath.  Blue eyes were peering up at him blearily.

"What...?

"You passed out.  There was blood in your lungs, Phillip." Phineas took his hand as he sat at the edge of the bed.

It felt too much like visiting the hospital after the fire, the entire posture, their relative positions.  But this was so much worse.  Back then, Phillip's recovery had been certain.  The burns would heal and he would leave the hospital with a few scars and little more.  There was no certainty here.

But, could it really be said he recovered at all when he lay in bed now, afflicted by an illness for which that wretched fire had been responsible.

A fire that was Phineas' fault.  A crime through sheer neglect.  Had he sentenced Phillip to this?  Was he the one to be held to account?

It should have been him in that bed.

The hand in his tightened, a minute motion that dragged him urgently from his self-pitying remonstrations.  Phineas offered a thin smile down at his lover, stroking over Phillip's dishevelled hair with his free hand.

"Dr. Stokes said it sometimes happens after the lungs suffer a trauma.  The blood.  He drained it, but you need to stay calm.  No running around into burning buildings, alright?" He tried to joke, to keep his voice light, but it felt foreign and false and sickening to his own ears, "He...he also said that you might have - do have - pneumonia.  They're linked.  The trauma and blood and pneumonia.  They're all linked, which is good!  It's good because it means that if we treat one, the rest will get better."

The doctor had said nothing of the sort, but it made sense.  Didn't it?

Phineas knew it did not.  Fix only one broken link in a damaged chain, and the chain still falls apart.  Fail to repair anything short of all the foundations of a house, and it will crumble to the ground.  Phineas couldn't come up with a metaphor to make his theory hold true, so he just smiled an encouraging smile down at his partner and squeezed the freezing hand in his.

"There's a treatment too, for the pneumonia." Phineas continued talking happily and with forced ease, "Dr. Stokes is sending it over later.  We'll get out of the city.  Go somewhere quiet and clean where there isn't all the damp and smog and dust, and you'll be better before you have a chance to get bored of my company."

"I could never...get bored...of you..." Phillip muttered, his earnest demonstration of affection unnerving Phineas more than the rasp in his voice, "But how...the cost...we need savings for...damages and illness...and..."

"You're ill and you're part of the circus." Phineas argued resolutely, "That money is as much there to take care of you as it is to care for any of the others.  I'm not accepting any arguments on this point, Phillip.  You're being treated with everything Dr. Stokes can give us, regardless of the cost.  We'll deal with that at a later date, when you're recovered.  Then you can look over and despair about the finances as much as you wish.  But, right now, in this moment, all that matters is that you recover because the circus needs you to get better.   _I_ need you to get better."

As he had been speaking, Phineas was aware of another presence lingering just beyond the threshold of the room.  Mr. O'Malley.  He might have stopped speaking on account of the loss of privacy, but Phillip needed to hear those words, and Phineas was too tired to care if their former thief heard them too.  He just needed Phillip to be as invested as this recovery as he was.  He needed Phillip to not give up himself to the clutches of disease.

"Phin--" Phillip began his protest.

"Don't!" Tears prickled at the corners of Phineas' eyes, "You do not get to decide this, Phil.  You are an integral part of me, and I will fight with everything I have to keep that part alive, do you understand?  You had better do the same because I don't want to take on a single battle without you at my side."

Phillip's lip twitched.  His blue eyes softened.  He nodded and squeezed Phineas' hand.

"Sorry to interrupt." O'Malley, seeing the close of that intimate moment, now finally spoke.  He held in his hands a simple wooden box under one arm and a sheet of paper in the other hand, "Stokes' clerk was just by.  Wanted to check if Mr. Carlyle has had a hot bath yet, and brought medicine and treatment instructions."

"Thank you." Phineas turned to help Phillip sit up, "Let's get you to that bath."

"I...can walk." Phillip pushed himself up to stand on wavering feet.

"I don't doubt that you will try." Phineas replied, steadying his partner by bracing his forearms, and helping him get to the bathroom where the hot bath was already waiting for its use.  Phillip stripped off his shirt on a look from Phineas, and allowed himself to be helped into the warm water.

"Mr. O'Malley," Phineas said as he knelt to help steady Phillip in the bathtub, "What does the treatment plan say?"

"That he needs to be in the bath for five or seven minutes an' the water temperature needs to not change in that time."

Phineas frowned, "Alright.  We might be a little lax on that rule this time...candles under the bath might help keep the temperature the same in future...have you been timing?"

"Four minutes." Phillip whispered, then added with a slight smile, "Can see your watch from here."

The older man glanced down at the small instrument he word outside his waistcoat pocket for rehearsals, smirked, and looked back up at O'Malley.

"What then?"

"Wrap him in a blanket without dryin' to induce sweatin'...give him two of the..." The man fumbled in the box, "Two of these pills with two tablespoons of this stuff."

He held up a vial of small yellowish spheres and a bottle of some viscous liquid.

"Five minutes."

"We'll wait until seven."

"Then, every two hours after give another one tablespoon of the stuff until the chest pain goes away." O'Malley stood, setting the box down, and grabbed a pile of blankets from the bedroom, "Keep his feet hot."

"If the chest pain doesn't go away?" Phineas accepted a blanket, watching the hands of his watch tick through the sixth minute.

"Leeches."

"Wonderful." Phillip muttered, "The pills had...better work."

Phineas reached down to help Phillip out of the bath and wrap him in two blankets, "Don't start pretending they are just to avoid the leeches, Carlyle.  I'll know."

He helped Phillip back into bed, bundling him into a cocoon and propping him against the pillows.  Over the cocoon, he draped the bed sheets and an additional quilt.  Phillip glared from within his encasement of fabric.

"I can't...move..."

"You're not required to move." Phineas replied, taking the pills from O'Malley, "Swallow these."

Phillip struggled to obey, so Phineas brought a glass of water to his lips to help.  It took a few minutes to get the syrup open and administer two tablespoons to Phillip.  Barely a minute later, the younger ringmaster was wrenching into a bowl over the side of the bed.

"Oh, forget to mention there's an emetic in that one."

Phineas glared pointedly at the Irishman.

"It's a purgative." He offered in a quasi defence.

"Anything else you missed?" Phineas asked tiredly.

"We ain't through all the treatment yet, Barnum."

"There's more?" Phineas asked in surprise, "Well, what else?"

"There are other pills to be given every four hours." O'Malley replied, "An' you need to keep giving effervescent draughts.  There's powder to make 'em here...I think that's it."

"Damn this is confusing." As Phillip stopped heaving up what little there was in his stomach, Phineas eased him back against the cushions, stroking hair from his forehead and offering a glass of water to his lips, "Alright.  Take me through it all again.  And, Mr. O'Malley, thank you for this.  Really.""

"Not at all.  We look after our own." The words were more for Phillip than for Phineas, "Right, recapitulatin'.  Order of treatment is thus.  Bleed with leeches - there are some in the box - give a hot bath, these little white pills an' the syrup stuff.  Two pills, two tablespoons.  Then one tablespoon every two hours an' one of the yellowish pills every four hours.  Allay thirst with water an' effervescent draughts, made up with citric acid - fifteen grains - an' equal parts carbonate of soda an' tartaric acid...you can blister the chest if leeches don' work..."

"What's in...the...pills?" Phillip asked, wheezing slightly.

"Don' say.  Oh, the vials say do..." O'Malley examined the vial of yellow pills first, "Colocynth, whatever that be, calomel, an' croton oil, extract of henbane."

Phineas, seeing this distraction was actually helping Phillip drift into a sleep, picked the bottle up next, frowning as he read, "Nitre, tartar emetic, camphor, laudanum, and syrup of saffron...how do make a syrup from saffron?"

"Pale ones are calomel an' opium." O'Malley quirked an eyebrow, "Might hang onto those after you get better."

"I doubt...you have trouble...finding...opium..." Phillip was fading fast, his breathing evening out towards the the deeper breaths of sleep.

"Oh, this you won' like." O'Malley had also noticed the effect this was having on their patient, and continued to talk quietly in measured tones, "Have to stay in bed, 'remarkably quiet', it says, an' on the 'thinnest an' least excitin' diet'.  Skin an' lungs guarded from damp or cold.  And keep that way until you're the picture o' health again."

Phillip had, by this time, passed out entirely.  Phineas pressed a hand against his too-hot forehead, almost the only part of his skin exposed as he was cocooned within so many layers of blankets.

"Does it say how long it will take to work?" He asked quietly.

"Afraid not." O'Malley replied, "But that it can recur.  So keep the treatment up as long as he looks to be out o' sorts."

"This apartment won't do." Phineas muttered, "We need to get to the country.  Somewhere with clean, warmer air.  One moment..."

The ringmaster rose suddenly and dashed over to the desk standing against one wall.  He pulled out a telegram paper and scribbled something on it before returning to give it to O'Malley.

"Can you have this sent?  And bring any reply to me?"

"O' course.  Anythin' to help." The Irishman said, "He's one of us, an' we look after family.  God knows he'd do the same an' more for any of us."

"Thank you." Phineas said quietly, "Could I ask one more favour?  Please explain the situation to the others and ask that they continue rehearsals without us for the time being.  I'll be able to give a more informative notice after I get a response from that wire.  Update me if there are any problems, and please promise everyone that I will make up this inconvenience as soon as Phillip's health is certain.  That I--"

"Don' worry about it, Barnum.  I'll sort it." O'Malley offered a rare smile and stood, "I'll see myself out.  Hour an' a half before the next dose of syrup."

With that, he left.

The box of medicine sat on the floor near the bed, still unlatched.

Phineas checked his watch with trembling hands as his legs finally gave way.  He sank to the floor, and cried.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you multitudinously for reading!
> 
> So, an explanation for Phillip's illness in modern terms. Essentially, the combination of existing damage to his respiratory epithelia from the fire, which led to the persistent cough and blood in his lungs, and the effects of a regular seasonal cold opened the way to Phillip's developing bacterial pneumonia (I specify bacterial because if the airways are already prepped to fight of a viral infection as they would be in the case of a cold, the chances of catching viral pneumonia would in theory be reduced because all the cells would be like "Oh, shit! Viral attack. Let's produce a bunch of interferons and stuff.", so no viral pneumonia). Pneumonia was a major cause of death in the 1800s, and it was understood to be transmissible to a degree, but only some people actually developed it. They were considered predisposed for some reason towards the disease while others around them might not catch it. Now this is known to relate to factors such as existing damage, immune suppression etc. such that essentially the bacteria are unable to infect a normal, healthy individual, but someone with such risk factors can be infected.
> 
> The pneumonia treatment that Phillip is receiving is from 'The Dictionary of Daily Wants', published in 1859, of which my University library has a copy. It's an interesting read, to be sure! However, might I recommend that no one attempts to reproduce this treatment in the comfort of their own home? You know, in favour of efficacious treatments grounded on subsequent decades of medical research? And, of course, being a Victorian treatment plan, it features both laudanum and opium. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I had considered TB, but pneumonia seemed to fit more with the trauma from the fire in terms of a logic thing for him to catch (although if he was already infected, then the trauma could facilitate development of TB...but we'll say he's not a carrier or his mycobacteria remain nice and dormant for the purposes of fiction). Also, in the 1800s, I think the prognosis for TB (consumption) was pretty bleak. Pneumonia wasn't great either, but it wasn't quite as hopeless as TB.
> 
> Dear me...that was quite the lengthy note...my apologies if you endeavoured to read it all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and commenting, and for bearing with my writing. I warn that there is a bit of blood and medically-inflicted injury in this chapter as Phineas plays trauma surgeon.

\---

Phineas sat in the private train carriage across from Phillip, or rather, the shivering bundle of coats and scarves that he had become.  They were headed out of the city into one of the rural, largely unpopulated regions south of New York, where Charity's family had a 'small' retreat.  The reply to the wire he had sent his wife via O'Malley had arrived the very same evening, brought to his doorstep in the trembling hands of a grieving Anne Wheeler.  The woman had handed it over to him with eyes downturned and tear tracks on her cheeks.  WD stood firm, a grave and stoic form at her side.

She had heard, of course, about Phillip's condition.  They all had.  When Phineas folded the telegram and looked back up at the pair to inform them that he was going to take Phillip out of the city, WD reassured the ringmaster that between Lettie and O'Malley, the circus was in good hands until he returned.

_He._

That was the word the man had chosen to use.

Not _they_.

Phineas had looked between WD and his sister, at his solemn expression, her red-rimmed eyes, and it was evident that in their minds, Phillip was already gone.  But, Phillip wasn't dead.  He was barely a yard away, laying in bed, tired and in pain and weak and ill and all those things, but  _alive_.  He was  _still alive_ , so why were his friends, his family, acting like he was already a fading memory?

In trembling words, Anne had asked to see him.

With polite solicitude, Phineas had refused.

He wouldn't have Phillip faced with loved ones already grieving for his loss.  Phillip was fighting, and he needed to keep fighting.  If he saw that others had given up on him, then Phineas feared he would give up himself.  All would then without doubt be lost.

"I promise you that I will bring him back." Phineas had smiled at the woman, but her eyes remained downcast and her spirit even more so.

"You can't promise that." She had muttered, barely audible, "No one can promise that."

" _I_ can." Phineas' reply came without hesitation, "I can promise it, and you can be damn sure of my keeping that promise."

As with most of his reckless and/or seemingly ill-fated promises, Phineas had Charity at his side.  Her reply to his telegram had been a simple summons.  The single word 'come', a train station, and time.  Phineas knew the station, was well aware of the small mansion situated near it that belonged to the Halletts.  What he didn't know was how his wife could have ever managed to acquire her father's permission for it to become host to Phineas, let alone the wayward Carlyle boy with him.  He didn't dwell on the how.  That could wait.  The train was to be caught early the following morning, so much of the rest of that evening had been spent between preparing for their journey, and seeing to Phillip's medial care.  Phillip had, of course, protested the cost of a private carriage, but after spending a considerable part of the journey the next day coughing violently into his scarves, Phineas felt his point had been made.

Arriving at their destination midmorning, Phineas helped Phillip down from the train and turned to be bombarded instantly by his daughters.  Charity followed after, smiling brightly, "They insisted on coming."

"Well, I'm very glad they did." Phineas embraced the girls, remarking on how lovely their new hats were and how tall they had suddenly become in the weeks since he last saw them.

"I'm the third tallest in my class." Helen smiled proudly, "I'll be taller than Phillip soon!"

She looked up to the ringmaster in question, standing on her tip toes to get closer to his height, drawing a soft laugh from him.

"Never!  I shan't allow it."

He made a show of exerting himself trying to get her to stand back on the flats of her feet.  As she laughed, Caroline came to join them, sizing herself up against the man too, and giggling when she found that she was taller than his shoulder already.

Phineas watched the game fondly, moving to stand at Charity's side.

"Don't worry," She said, "I told them he's not very well and to be careful."

"Thank you." He smirked, "Now if you could please tell  _him_ that.  He seems to be determined to act as if he's still the picture of perfect health."

She swallowed thickly and curled her elegant fingers around a hand he hadn't realised was tapping nervously at his own leg.

"How bad is it?" Her voice was soothing, calming, as it had always been.  Phineas offered a thin smile and entwined her fingers with his.

"Bad." He admitted, "And getting worse."

"He'll pull through." She said, "He's as stubborn as you are, maybe even more so."

"Slander."

A gentle smile, a squeeze of the hand.

"The house belongs to my family, but I've leave to make use of it." She explained, "I told my father that Caroline had entered womanhood, and we were in need of an all-female retreat.  I've requested only the housekeeper remain at the house.  Mrs Halcombe.  She's a good woman, and has been informed privately of your visit.  She will do whatever is required to help nurse Phillip back to us."

"Your father won't visit unexpectedly, will he?" Phineas asked, half joking, half mortified by the prospect, "We all know about his opinion of me, and I've seen him in the company of the Carlyles, so I doubt he likes Phil all too much."

"The disgraced son?  No.  You can be sure he's not fond of Phillip." She paused to call out to the girls, seeing that Phillip was starting to look a little unsteady on his feet, "But he won't come by without warning.  We'll be at a hotel nearby, so if he does write, you can swap with us."

Phineas smiled, clasping her hand in his to kiss it, "Thank you.  You are, as ever, a wonder beyond words."

He turned, and went to Phillip's side, steadying him with an arm around his waist.  Some passersby looked at them with suspicion, but Phillip didn't notice and Phineas didn't care.  From the tension in the younger man's shoulders, palpable even beneath several layers of clothing, Phineas knew he was trying not to succumb to a coughing it.  A restraint much appreciated in the presence of his daughters.

"This carriage will take you to the estate." Charity took Helen's hand as the girls headed back towards their mother.

"Can we visit?" Caroline asked, falling into step with her father as if to escort them to the waiting carriage.

"Sorry, sweetie." Phineas said, helping his partner to climb inside, "Phillip's going to be in bed the entire time.  You'll be bored witless."

"Can we visit after then?" Carloline asked, "When he gets better?"

"Sure."

"Promise?" Helen beamed from beside Charity.  The woman exchanged an anxious glance with her husband.

"Now, you girls behave and enjoy the hotel." Phineas said in lieu of reply because, as much as he was almost certain of Phillip's recovery, he wouldn't make a vow he couldn't keep, not to his children.  If the lack of a promise went unnoticed by his younger daughter, it was not lost on Caroline.  She watched their carriage depart with a solemn expression, hand clutching Charity's tight.

\--- 

"I can manage, Phin." Phillip struggled to disentangle himself from the sheets, stopping just as he was able to push himself up to a seated position, panting heavily in short, shallow breaths.  As soon as he had managed to recover himself enough, he edged towards the edge of the bed until he was able to touch the balls of his feet to the floor.  Almost immediately he was taken by an aggressive fit of coughs that had him doubled over and wheezing.  Even when they subsided enough for him to draw breath, he remained hunched over, hands clutching his hair as a pained groan escaped his lips.

Despite all this, he still continued to bat Phineas' hand away when it reached out towards him.

"I can...bathe...myself." He gritted out, trying to speak despite a new wave of coughs wracking through his body.

"Phillip..."

"I can handle it!" The younger man's voice trembled with exhaustion.  They hadn't had time to carry out the hot bath part of treatment before leaving that morning, and Phineas had allowed Phillip to sleep the first few hours after their arrival at the house, but now the bath had been drawn and was no doubt getting colder by the second.

"You couldn't handle it yesterday." Phineas shot back, "Why should today be any different?"

"I'm not...a child." Phillip's glare held little weight when supported by such drawn features.

"And what if you were to pass out in the water?" Phineas asked, growing irritated at his own impatience and his partner's stuborness, "What then?  Or you can't get out and catch a chill?  Both are distinct possibilities, and both have the same outcome.  So, no.  You cannot handle it alone!"

The younger man's scowl crumbled, and he dropped his head back into his hands.

"Please, Phin."

All the guilt of his frustrated words rushing to greet him, Phineas crouched in front of his lover, placing one hand on his still-clothed thigh and reaching out with the other to gently pull away the hands covering his face, "Why don't you want me to bathe you?"

"It's not right." Phillip murmured, voice hoarse, "We haven't...seen each other...we...it was meant to be...special.  Not  _this_."

Phineas smiled sympathetically.  Even in broken terms, he understood.  Being naked before another human was uncomfortable.  Their society dictated that it should be, and even someone as supposedly radical as Phineas was not immune to that facet of the social order.  Being naked before another human being whom you were in the process of courting, well, that was bordering on the terrifying.  Add in the no doubt still lingering reservations in Phillip's mind as to the improper nature of their relationship, and the embarrassment he had shown when revealing his scarred torso to Phineas, and the apprehension made even more sense.

Nonetheless, there was no question that Phillip needed a hot bath.  And Phineas felt that being clothed would make it less effective.  Wet clothes were always unpleasantly cold and damp.  Phillip was not meant to be getting cold or damp.

"Please, Phineas.  I..I will be...fine.  I feel fine." He panted, looking very much  _not_ fine.

The older man made no reply, but bit his lip in thought.

Perhaps there was a solution after all.

He stood, the hand on Phillip's thigh coming to cup his chin, raising his head.

Once standing with Phillip's blue eyes trained on him, Phineas began to unbutton his waistcoat.  He shucked it off and tossed it onto the bed.  He then slipped the suspenders from his shoulders, letting them hang about his thighs, and moved onto the shirt.  That, too, was removed and thrown to the bed.  Finally, the trousers.

"What are you doing?" Phillip breathed, staring wide-eyed up at the other, who stood before him now only in his drawers and socks, and had already begun to remove the latter.

"Getting naked."

" _Why_?"

"Because then we can be naked together." Phineas replied simply, balling up the socks together and aiming for the bed, missing, and shrugging as they rolled away towards a corner of the room.  He moved to remove the final item of clothing.

"That is..." Phillip cleared is throat as his voice broke, "That is the...most ridiculous..."

Another coughing fit disrupted his sentence, but he persisted as it drew at length to a close, "The most ridiculous...thing I have...ever heard."

But there was a smile on his face, brightening his eyes, and he made no further protests when Phineas helped him to undress and escorted him to the bathroom with an arm around his waist, at least giving him the dignity of not being carried in such a state of undress.  That might have been pushing it a bit too far.  The entire time, Phillip kept his eyes trained either on a far corner of the room or well above Phineas' waistline.  Or, he quickly trained his eyes to those places when Phineas was looking.  But the older man caught some tentative glances to the skin that had always so far been hidden, and felt a warmth in seeing the whisper of desire in Phillip's gaze.

The bath was still hot, steam coiling in serpentine patterns from the clear surface of the water.  Phineas placed a watch within view of the tub and helped Phillip in, moving to follow after.  He sat back against the edge of the deep tub, and pulled Phillip against him, safely enclosed in his embrace.  He hummed contentedly, resting his forehead on Phillip's shoulder.  There was a slight pressure as Phillip tilted his head to rest against Phineas'.

"I could...stay here...forever." Phillip whispered with a warm smile in his voice.  Phineas hummed his agreement and turned just enough to press a kiss into the smooth juncture of Phillip's shoulder and neck, sending a shiver through the other's body.

"Mmm..." He kissed a little higher and curled his fingers around one of Phillip's wrists, "We only have five more minutes."

He traced fluttering kisses up Phillip's neck to his ear.

Phillip's hands gripped Phineas' thighs on either side of his body, fingers pressed into flesh with none of the strength they ought to have possessed.

With one hand, Phineas gently reached up and turned Phillip's head, angling his jaw just enough to press their lips delicately together.  Nothing of the verocity and passion of their previous kisses, this was careful and reserved.  Phineas still had one hand wrapped around Phillip's wrist, feeling the pulse beneath his fingers.  When it started to race just a little to much, he pulled away and, with a final press of lips to Phillip's temple, lay back against the tub.

Phillip choked out a sharp cough, huffing indignantly, "You-you can't...just-just stop."

Phineas smiled and stroked his fingers through Phillip's damp hair, "I'm not.  It's just a momentary delay.  Until you're better."

The younger man let his head drop back against Phineas' chest, eyes closing tiredly.

"To be continued, then?"

"To be continued."

\---

Within the space of a week, the prospect of any continuation dwindled into a near impossibility, even in Phineas' optimistic eyes, as Phillip's condition deteriorated rapidly.

The cough worsened, burdening him almost without respite.  He could hardly say a word without being overcome with a harsh fit, and soon had given up on even attempting to speak.  His breaths were scratchy and uncomfortably strained.  Phineas' own lungs seemed to burn just hearing the horrible sound.  Phillip's skin was frighteningly pale and cold, and his hair hung in disheveled, sweat-dampened tendrils over his forehead as fever continued to torment him.  Neither man bothered attempting to put it in any order.  Phillip's aesthetic preferences seemed so utterly frivolous now.

The housekeeper was as good as Charity had promised.  She left Phineas and Phillip to their own devices, never disturbing them without polite warning, and yet always having a hot bath ready at the same time each morning, food and water brought up at regular intervals, and freshly washed clothes and bed linens and blankets delivered to just where they were needed.  Had she any ideas about the nature of Phineas' relationship with Phillip, which she might have inferred from his never having even entered the bedroom set up for him, she said nothing of it, but brought the night shirts in from his room to Phillips after one day.

Phineas was sat up on one side of the double bed, back against the headboard, hand stroking monotonously through Phillip's hair, eyes distantly watching the stuttering rise and fall of his chest as he slept.  At the firm knock on the door,  he looked up quickly, thought about removing his hand and taking up a book, but with Phillip slipping away in front of his eyes, every touch seemed precious, something to be clung to lest it suddenly disappear.

Phineas bid the woman enter without withdrawing his hand.

She walked in carrying a tray with plates of cold meats, cheese, and fresh bread for him, and a bowl thin broth for Phillip.  The younger man was entirely unconscious, and would have to take his meal later.

The situation was not unusual.  Phillip was rarely awake, other than when he was woken to be given his medicine or by a fit.  For the first two days when Phineas had gingerly applied the leeches to the other man's chest before his bath - a practice he really felt to be a little medieval, but who was he to dispute the doctor's order? - Phillip had been at least partially awake, wincing at the sight of the squirming black forms on his skin.  Now he didn't even stir.  Phineas was tempted to remove the leech part of his treatment.  The little creatures seemed to posses more of Phillip's blood than the man himself did at this point, and the persistent blood letting was just weakening him further.

Phineas eyed his food sullenly when the tray was placed on the table beside him.

"Madam instructed me to check that you are taking good care of yourself." Mrs Halcombe said boldly, noting his expression, "She said you might not, and if this were the case, to remind you that Mr. Carlyle's best chance of recovery is if you are strong and able to take care of him.  And therefore that you should eat properly, get ample sleep, and take exercise.  Seeing the situation, I can understand how the latter two are perhaps more challenging, and shall neglect to inform the lady of your being remiss in those respects, but I am afraid I shall have to give her notice if you do not eat well."

Phineas smiled weakly up at her, a strained and uncomfortable thing that felt out of place on his features.

"Very well.  Thank you."

"Is there anything else, sir?"

"Yes, please have this wire sent." He handed her a slip from his pocket.  A request to Dr. Stokes for further medication.  They were nearly out.  Phineas wondered whether there being barely enough for over a week was just because the doctor had not sufficient supply at the time, or whether he had not expected the man to be ill for so long.  Or to survive so long.

Phineas tried not to think about the latter possibility.

She left and the silence returned.  Phineas ate his meal in that silence, the food seeming tasteless and dry.  His eyes barely left Phillip.  It was nearing time to wake him and administer the opium pills and syrup.  Fifteen minutes, by his watch.

Phineas set the tray aside and closed his eyes.

He was exhausted.  The broken sleep pattern was getting to him, and the constant strain on his nerves from baring witness to Phillip's failing state of health only added to the depletion.  He'd let himself feel the pull of that tiredness whenever Phillip was unconscious, but spoke as animatedly and positively as usual when he was alert.  Phillip would protest if he knew his treatment was trying for his partner, would probably even be stubborn enough to try and send for a doctor to do it, or get up and stagger all the way to the nearest hospital.

Phineas resolved to stay awake now, to just let his eyes close long enough to allay the pounding in his head.  Just for a few minutes until the time arrived to wake Phillip.

A sudden, sharp movement at his side dragged Phineas from his sleep state.  He blinked in confusion, mind slowly trying to catch up with some awareness of where he was.  Of what was moving beside him.  Of what that strange, gargling sound was.

Eyes widened at the realisation.  He had fallen asleep, been woken by Phillip.  But his partner wasn't coughing as usual when he suddenly awoke.  No.  This time, he was drowning.

Phineas spun instantly towards Phillip, panic setting in as he saw the man struggling for air, just as he had back at the circus after his collapse.

His lungs must once more be filled with blood.  Phineas knew he had to drain it.  Do what the doctor had done.

There was no time to consider options, no time to panic.  He had to act immediately and worry about everything else later.

Phineas looked frantically about the room.  He recalled what Stokes had done, but had no object with which to do it.  Catching sight of a tapered glass bud vase on the dresser, he leapt over the bed and snatched it up, breaking the base off with a paperweight.

Brushing any loose shards away from the open end with his sleeve, he returned to the bedside to drag the covers away from Phillip's body and roll him over so that the wound was on the same side of the bed as him.

He pulled up Phillip's night shirt, revealing the would from before.  It was raw, barely healed.

And smaller.

Considerably smaller than the glass tube Phineas now brandished, but Phillip's thrashing was starting to weaken.

Phineas couldn't worry about the details now.

He placed one forearm over Phillip's torso, holding him still, positioned the glass end over the old wound, and stabbed hard.

It was only once the glass had pierced the flesh that Phineas realised he didn't know how far to go.  How far before the vase would be just as dangerous as the blood in his lungs?  Was he far enough to drain the blood at all?  What if it wasn't even the same lung this time?

All these apprehensions came as a flood while Phineas knelt there, holding the glass tube inside his lover's chest and listening to him drown on his own blood.

For several agonising moments, nothing changed.  There was no blood in the vase, no breath on Phillip's lips.

And then, a trickle of thick red ran in swirling rivulets down the vase onto the floor below.

Seconds later, Phillip inhaled sharply.

Phineas let out a breath.

Phillip was trembling all over, still very much awake and alert, and without the panic of being unable to breath, suddenly aware of his situation.  He twisted beneath Phineas' arm, looking back at the glass tube sticking out of his side, and let out a terrified whimper.  Phineas moved his hand to cover the frightened blue eyes.

"It's ok." He tried to sooth, "It's ok.  This will be over soon.  See?  You can breath now.  Everything's alright."

Phillip still shook, but he didn't fight Phineas.  He just lay there as blood trailed from his body, tears dampening Phineas' hand.

As the blood flow ended, Phineas gathered the end of one of the sheets to press against the open wound, carefully sliding the glass from his lover's body and trying to ignore the gasp of pain it elicited.

At this juncture, Phineas found himself at a loss.

Dr Stokes had sewn up Phillip's wound the first time, and with some haste.  Phineas couldn't just leave this open, particularly not when it was so much larger than the previous wound.  However, he had no means of sewing anything at present, let alone the tools required to sew shut human flesh.  Even if he had, he'd have no idea how to do it.  But, he'd seen bad injuries tended to in other ways before.

Looking over the bed towards the fire, Phineas felt his stomach turn at the very notion of what he was about to do to Phillip.  He took his partners hand and pressed it against the cloth stemming bleeding for the time, instructing him to hold it steady.  Phillip nodded, whole body still trembling, and whimpered slightly when the warmth of his partner was gone from his side.

Phineas walked over to the hearth and gravely took up the iron poker, plunging it into the flames.  He tried to talk to Phillip, to offer soothing words that he didn't even register himself.

The poker glowed a soft red.  Phineas returned to the bed, climbing over from the other side now.  He pressed one shin over Phillip's legs and the other knee on his shoulder.  His free hand took up Phillip's far arm, holding it firmly away from the area of the wound, pinned against the side of his head.  Phillip let out a confused sound of protest.

With a whispered apology and no hesitation, Phineas brought the hot iron down upon the open wound.

Phillip screamed.  Hoarse and agonising.  His entire body jolted and trembled and desperately struggled beneath his partner's hold.

Phineas felt tears slip down his cheeks onto his lover's body as those screams transformed into terrible coughs, each one expanding his ribcage and spreading the range of contact the poker made beyond the wound itself.

The scent of burning flesh was nauseating, painfully familiar, and associated distinctly and solely with Phillip.

The skin bubbled beneath the metal.

Phillip coughed and screamed and writhed.

Phineas was the orchestrator of it all.

When he finally thought it must have been long enough, and his hand was trembling too much for him to hold the poker there any longer, Phineas withdrew, staggering back from the bed and surveying with horror what he had done.

Firm hands suddenly took the poker from his.

Mrs Halcombe.

She wore a grave expression as she returned the iron rod to the fireplace, then turned to leave.  The words she said on doing so - salve, bandages - had meaning only several minutes later.  Phineas stared at Phillip on the bed, curled in on his side, shaking and pale with an angry, blistered, raw burn standing stark from his myriad already present burn scars.

His lover whimpered once.  A pitiful, helpless sound.

A terrible sound Phineas prayed he could forget.  It was enough to snap him back to himself, and spur him to launch over to the far side of the bed.  He knelt there, beside his lover, reaching out to caress his tear-soaked cheek.

The instant contact was made, the warmth of skin on his own, Phillip's walls were finally shattered.  He curled into Phineas' legs, clutching at whatever fabric he could reach, and sobbed desperately.

He wept until the sobs became brutal coughs, and those soon rasping gasps for air.

Looking down at his lover, Phineas felt tears falling freely down his own cheeks.  This was Phillip without his defences.  Terrified, in pain, without the pride and shame left in him from years of stern upbringing.  His thin fingers clenched in the fabric of Phineas' shirt.  A desperate attempt to seek something real to hold onto, something safe, when his entire existence had become an exhausting agony and monotonous execution of ineffective treatments.

Unable to do anything, Phineas could only watch and wait for it to end.

\---

Weeks dragged by with little further change.

Phillip said nothing, barely ate.  He weakened each day, soon being barely able to curl his fingers around Phineas' hand and follow the motions if his lover around the room with hazy blue eyes. They were on their third crate of medical supplies.  Phineas was exhausted.  He slept in two hour stretches at most, waking to give Phillip medicine, or in response to choking sounds in the bed beside him.  He had little appetite, no interest or passion or energy to do anything but take care of Phillip.  His apprentice, turned partner, and finally turned lover.

 _Lover_.

Barely had they explored the meaning of that word.  And now, he was here, wasting away before Phineas' eyes, and there was not a damned thing that could be done about it.

They were doing everything, and nothing worked.

It seemed hopeless, and Phineas had never been hopeless.  He had never truly believed that there was nothing to be done.  He felt twisted and dark at the very concept.

But then he looked at Phillip, into his lover's eyes.

Barely a shell of himself, fading into nothing, and yet his eyes betrayed nothing of this.

He was weakened, yes, broken down and at the mercy of this infection.  But there was something in the shine of his blue eyes.  Something that told Phineas this was still his Phillip.  This was the man he fell in love with.  This was not the nameless, voiceless victim of disease.  This was still Phillip.  And, as long as Phillip was still in there, Phineas knew there was hope.

And so, he persisted with the treatment.  With sleepless nights and harrowing days, with leeches and opioids and emetics, with every cough and choke and drop of blood.

He fought alongside his partner.

In the heat of battle, he barely noticed the shifting of the tide.

The slight colour in Phillip's cheeks.  One coughing fit less than the day before.  A little more clarity to his breaths.

Nights began with Phillip curled on his side, back pressed against his lover's strong body, Phineas' arms a protective case around him.

Over a month into the futile treatment, this was a night to be like all the others.  In barely an hour, Phillip would wake coughing violently, and Phineas would wait for it to finish, then give him the medicine.  Phillip would throw up, drink a sip of water, and go back to sleep, both men more exhausted than before.  This was the invariant routine for which Phineas was solemnly prepared as he closed his eyes to sleep.

But when he awoke, it was to the warm glow of late morning, streaming through a gap in the drapes.

\---


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for commenting/kudosing/reading.
> 
> And thank you a multitudinous manifold to Schiz for beta-ing this for me and advising me on writing it in general. You'd have a haphazard, all over the place chapter if not for her intervention. Now, instead, you have at least three more. XD

\---

With everything that had led up to that moment, that morning, Phineas' instincts screamed at him to expect the worse.

Why had he not awakened during the night to Phillip's haggard wheezing?  Because his partner was dead, of course, was the only possible reason his mind seemed able to supply.  After all, what other explanation could be supposed when the man had been at death's door for months?

The instant that thought sprung upon Phineas, he had sprung to his knees.  Phillip lay on his back beside him, eyes softly shut and face calm in a picture of perfect serenity.  For the first time since this all began, there was no twist to his features telling of the pain that had followed him even to sleep.  In that peaceful repose, he seemed younger, more alive somehow. It softened the sharp protrusion of bones that told of his gradual decay, just as it smoothed the slight creases that recollected every past frown and smile that had crossed his features.  There was no rasp of harshly sucked in air, no soft and uneven exhalation. The terrible sounds of Phillip's breath that had haunted Phineas for so long were silent.

_ Everything _ was silent, perfectly silent, and Phillip was perfectly still.

So pale, so wasted.  Was this the form in which Phillip was to leave the world?

Phineas reached one hand out into the darkness that stretched between them and pressed it softly to Phillip's neck.  Then he pressed harder, fingers pushing firm against the vessels beneath cold, dry skin, panic welling within him when he still felt no motion beneath his fingertips.

He moved his hand across slightly, pressed again, held his breath.

Silence and stillness pervaded.  Him, Phillip, the world around them.  Everything still and silent.

Until, there.

A beat.

A soft motion, a pulse, the sign of life.  Again, and again, and again. Repeated and steady and blessedly  _ there _ .

Phillip was alive.

And yet, the breath.

Phineas couldn't rejoice yet.  Why couldn't he hear the harsh shallow breaths that had been a mark of his lover for months past?

He bent over, close by Phillip's lips, forehead resting against the other's prominent clavicle, and listened.

It was there too.  Breath. It tickled the short hairs alone of his unshaven jawline, and that was the only sign of its existence at all, save for the slightest, quietest rasp.

Phillip was alive and breathing.  Breathing almost normally. Or, at least, not so abnormally as had been his wont.

With that realisation came another.  The realisation that Phillip had slept through the night, unburdened by his cough, that his breathing had cleared, that his features were no longer distorted from pain.  The conclusion from these changes, Phineas would not admit, but he smiled nonetheless. He grinned broadly and barked out a laugh, leaning down to press a long kiss against Phillip's hair, then laughed again and kissed his lips.

The other man stirred at the sensation, frowning before cracking open his eyes to reveal slivers of stunning blue irises.

He peered up at Phineas for a beat, then closed them again.  His lips moved as if to say something, but no sound came out.  His eyes opened narrowly once more, brow creasing into a frown, and he made another attempt.  Once again he was silent, his words nothing but breath in the cool morning air. He swallowed, coughed lightly, and tried once more.  This time, his lips shaped around a sound. The slightest hint of a word, almost an identifiable syllable, which instantly transformed into a sudden, violent cough.

Phillip’s eyes screwed shut, and one thin hand scrambled to cling onto the fabric of Phineas' shirt as Phillip’s emaciated frame was wracked with desperate rasping gasps for air.  Phineas closed his own eyes and waited for the fit to end, one hand stroking soothingly over Phillip’s back in a far too well-practiced motion. It was far from the worst fit Phineas had seen Phillip endure, and lasted only a few minutes, but it still brought tears to the eyes of both men.

When the coughs had subsided and Phillip's breath evened once more, his blue eyes locked with Phineas' own.  Phillip's lips moved again, shaping around the words he could not voice. Phineas was watching intently, and he knew what had been said.  Or the premise of it, at least.

_ Sleep _ .

Phillip was telling him to go back to sleep.

It was certainly a tempting prospect.  A few hours of straight slumber was hardly sufficient to recompense the days, weeks, months of having gone almost entirely without.  Snatching an hour or two whenever Phillip himself slept long enough to do so had worn on him and now, having experienced the pleasant sensation of rest for the first time in so long, Phineas was very eager to return to that feeling.

Since the coughing fit Phillip had suffered was short and, relatively speaking, harmless, Phineas barely protested the pull.  Requested by his partner, he couldn’t refuse anyway. If Phillip needed sleep and he needed sleep, then they would sleep.

Phineas lay back down on the bed and pulled Phillip flush against him.  The other man sighed contentedly and curled in around the arms wrapped about his waist.

A few months ago, Phineas would have whispered something to Phillip then.  An ‘I love you’, or a ‘Goodnight’. Something more playful, perhaps. A teasing remark about his excessive use of hair products.  A joke about his height. Even just some barely coherent comment on the preceding show or the temperature or the bedsheets. It needn’t have been a word of any import.  It was just  _ something _ .

But now, Phillip couldn’t talk, so Phineas wouldn’t talk.  He didn’t want to hear the sound of his own voice. He wanted to hear Phillip’s voice, Phillip’s endeared tones, Phillip’s laughing banter.

As he allowed the relentless pull of sleep to drag him from consciousness, Phineas wondered whether he would ever again hear that velvet voice.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this vaguely fluffy interlude.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you a million-fold and more to the wise Schizanthus for beta-ing this for me. It would be utterly incomprehensible without such assistance.

\--- --- ---

Despite Phillip’s silent instruction and his own lingering exhaustion, Phineas found himself unable to fall back asleep.  Every time he would start to drift off, morbid images of Phillip laying cold and dead in his arms flashed through his mind.  The very notion that his partner might breath his last laboured breath while Phineas slept on unaware was too disturbing to permit him any further rest.

Up until that night, Phillip had invariably startled Phineas awake with his desperate, heaving coughs.  While it was never easy to sit and watch helplessly as the man he loved fought through the burning agony in his lungs, at least the very fact that he was suffering was a sign that Phillip was still alive.  But now, with the younger man’s breath quieter and his sleep undisturbed, Phineas had no such reassurance to comfort his uneasy mind.

After a few hours of failed attempts to doze off, he decided to give up the endeavour.  He pushed himself up onto his elbows and examined his sleeping partner. For the first time since Phillip’s condition took a turn for the worse, Phineas was awake enough, had time enough, to pause and consider the change in the man.

His skin was still a sickly ashen hue even in the delicate gold glow of the midday sun, its  gentle illumination doing little to soften the sharp angles of bones protruded from sunken features.  His hair had grown unkempt, and lay thick upon the pillow beneath him. Having not shaved in weeks, he had acquired the beginnings of facial hair he usually took such care to keep away.

The picture altogether seemed a poor mockery of the man Phillip had once been.

As soon as the younger man was lucid enough to take in his own condition, he would surely balk at the state of his appearance.  Demand a shave and haircut immediately. Spend several hours returning his hair to its usual immovable perfection.

But not yet.

Still he lay unmoving.

Phineas carefully reached out and pressed his fingers to Phillip’s neck, reassuring himself with the steady beat beneath his skin that Phillip still lived.  He leant in close, listened to the soft, slightly strained, sound of the younger man’s breath. Still clear. No lingering sound of blood in his lungs, nor the warning rattle that preceded it.

Only once satisfied that Phillip had not undergone some relapse, and was definitely still with him, did Phineas slide from beneath the bedsheets, folding his half of the linen over his partner to minimise the loss of warmth.

As he moved towards the desk, intending to sit and watch Phillip sleep, and perhaps to write much needed correspondence to O’Malley and Charity, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the window.

He was far from the wraith Phillip had become, but he looked far worse than he thought he might ever have.  His hair had grown in a disorderly fashion, much more of a diffuse mess than Phillip’s. He had developed a substantial beard, and couldn’t help but wonder how that hadn’t even registered to him before.  How Phillip hadn’t yet drawn attention to it. He couldn’t be sure if it had even been noticed. If Phillip was aware enough of the details in his surroundings to discern such a thing. How long before he returned to the sharp, quick-witted, energetic man he was meant to be?

Phineas wished he knew.  At least had some notion.  But, the doctor had not even thought Phillip would survive.   _No one_ had thought he would survive.  And now that he seemed to have come through the worst of the illness itself, the question of his recovery became a prominent concern.

Ought he continue with the medicine prescribed?  They had already missed several doses because of the sudden capacity for rest.  Did he need to catch up? Administer those missing doses with the others? Or, if Phillip was getting better, perhaps he needn’t be forced to ingest any more of those vial concoctions or give up any more of his blood to the squirming leeches.

Phillip had wasted away under Phineas’ care.  Everything he managed to eat was soon thrown back up because of the emetics he had been ingesting.  They may have been instrumental in his recovery so far, but if he was breathing clearly and not coughing up blood anymore, surely they could do without.  Much longer and it would be starvation, and not pneumonia, that claimed Phillip’s life.

That sobering thought was enough to decide Phineas’ mind on the matter.

Phineas stood from the desk and walked over to the half-open case in which the medicines were stored.  He closed it fully, fastening the latches with a click that resonated with finality, and carried it out into the antechamber.  That, admittedly unnecessary, action made him feel unbelievably light. Removal of the medicines from the room was a tangible sign that Phillip truly had a chance of recovery.

Phineas returned to the bedroom with a smile on his lips.

He walked over to the bed and placed a soft kiss on Phillip’s forehead, pausing for a moment to stroke gently through the long hair flopped over his temples.  Phillip leant instinctively into the touch. Phineas’ smile grew at the slight movement, only to fall an instant later when he heard the sound of carriage wheels crunching against the gravel drive outside.

In a panic, he rushed to the window, but could see nothing of who exited the vehicle from his vantage point.  His immediate thought, his fear, was that it must be Mr. Hallet. He did own the house, after all. And thinking his daughter and grandchildren were taking a holiday here, he might have decided to drop by unannounced.  Or perhaps it _was_ announced and Phineas had missed a warning from Charity.  He had not opened any correspondence since arriving. Perhaps he had been warned and not known.

The fear of being thrown out unprepared, or arrested for trespassing, sent him sprinting out of the room and onto the landing, ready to defend his partner in whatever way he could.

He released a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding when he heard the familiar sound of his own children excitedly chattering downstairs.  His relief grew as he leant over the banister, catching a glimpse of Charity and the housekeeper talking. After a small exchange of words, the latter was instructed to take his daughters to play in the garden.  Moments later, he heard Charity ascend the staircase.

Any joy to be had at their reunion was bound to be transient; things never seemed to work out as easily as Phineas envisaged.  And, sure enough, after greeting him with a tight embrace and a few chiding words about his not taking proper care of himself, Charity informed him in a hushed voice that her father was expected back at the house.

“When will he arrive?” Phineas asked with the slightest anxious glance towards the open bedroom door.

“Tonight.” She replied, her face communicating all the solemnity of the message she had come to relay, “You and Phillip need to be gone by then.  He will not hesitate to have you both arrested if he finds you here, regardless of Phillip’s state.”

Phineas’ gaze lingered on the bedroom, thoughts of Phillip laying wasted on the bed filling his mind.

“I don’t know if Phillip’s well enough to travel yet.  Let alone if the city air might cause a relapse.”

“Spending the night in a jail cell would be much worse.” Charity pressed, touching Phineas’ hand gently, “He’s strong.  You know that. He survived this long, didn’t he?”

Phineas sighed heavily.  He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair.

Really, there was no choice.  He couldn’t afford to put them up in a hotel, not after the cost of the medicine and the likely hit to their income from the circus that his absence would have precipitated.  And moving Phillip around too much would be even worse than one trip back home. He couldn’t even guarantee finding a hotel at short notice anywhere in the town.

Finally, the lack of alternatives too evident, he pulled Charity into his arms, resting his head against her hair and finding comfort in the embrace as he had so often before.

“Alright,” he murmured quietly, “Thank you.  For all of this.”

She pulled back with a fond smile, her hands taking his.

“Get cleaned up.  We’ll pack and make some food for the journey,” she said, smile never faltering, “I’ll see if I can send a wire to O’Malley too.  Get him to meet you in New York.”

With those words, she released him and headed back downstairs.  He watched her leave, feeling the warmth and strength that her presence never ceased to raise within him, and at last returned to his partner.

Philip was still sleeping peacefully.  It was with no small amount of guilt that Phineas woke him, crouching beside the bed and running his fingers through the thick dark hair.

“Phil?” He murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Phillip’s temple, before repeating his name a little louder until the younger man stirred and his eyes fluttered tiredly open.

“There you are,” Phineas smiled gently, “We have to head back to New York.  Do you think you can walk?”

Phillip seemed to take a while to understand the words, but at last he nodded.  There was no question in his eyes, just a simple acceptance of what Phineas told him must be done.  Somehow that lack of interest, or need, to understand the situation was jarring. Phillip didn’t just accept things.  He asked why, and what were the alternatives, and had Phineas thought it through?

Phineas forced himself to push down his concern in favour of helping Phillip from the bed.  He waited until Phillip had managed to shift himself to sit at the edge of the mattress, and carefully took a hold of his forearms.  Phillip leant heavily on him as he stood, eyes closed and breathing heavy, the exertion on his unused muscles evident.

One attempted step and his legs gave way.  Phineas caught him about his waist, wincing at the pained gasp he drew from Phillip’s lips as the contact aggravated his poorly healed and cauterised wound.

“Sorry,” Phineas murmured, shifting to a hold around Phillip’s hips and waiting for the other man to recover himself before moving again, “Alright.  I’ve got you. A wash and shave, and we’ll be good to go.”

Despite the cheer he forced into his voice, Phineas felt no joy in the task ahead.  Cleaning himself and Phillip up was no challenge. He had been doing that for days. Shaving the younger man while he sat solemn and unmoving was as straightforward as shaving himself.  Dressing him up in the travelling clothes laid out for them while they were in the bathroom, too, was trivial.

The task that kept any hope from Phineas’ mind was stopping Phillip from worsening when they were back in New York City, surrounded by the smoke and fog of industry, and once more in their poorly insulated, damp apartment.

He wrapped the younger man in a thick overcoat that seemed too heavy for his thin frame, and a woollen scarf that could be pulled up over his nose and mouth on arriving in the city.  His mind was swimming with thoughts on how to protect Phillip when they arrived. How to keep him recovering in an environment that seemed designed to do the opposite.

To his relief, the carriage had already been loaded with their luggage by the time he had carried Phillip down the stairs.  His daughters were playing with the housekeeper in another room. Guiltily, he made no move to go and see them. He didn’t want them seeing him or Phillip in this state.

Charity was waiting by the carriage, a shawl over her shoulders and a poorly veiled expression of worry on her features.  She waited until he had helped Phillip into the vehicle before handing him a fabric-wrapped package.

“Just some bread and cheese, and cookies because the girls insisted,” she said gently, “Make sure you both eat something.”

“Thank you.” Phineas placed a kiss on the top of her head and said nothing more.  There was nothing more to be said. The forced smile on his lips was echoed on her own as she wished him a safe journey.

Phineas nodded, pulled her into one final embrace, and joined his partner in the carriage.

\---

After managing to remain awake in the carriage, Phillip slept most of train journey, his head lolling gently against Phineas’ shoulder.  He was awake only briefly, on Phineas’ behest, to share a little in the food that had been packed for them. The small amount of sustenance seemed to have done him good, however, as he was able to walk at their destination with only the support of his arm looped with Phineas’ necessary to keep from stumbling.

As promised, O’Malley was waiting to meet them at the station, a carriage already on hand.  He immediately went to help with their small amount of luggage, allowing Phineas to guide his partner into the waiting vehicle.  The sight of Phillip had alighted concerned relief in his eyes.

“I knew you’d survive it,” the Irishman said to him as the carriage started away from the station, “You do both look like shite though.”

Phineas laughed dryly, “Yeah, we’ve been better.  The circus?”

“Not great.” O’Malley replied with a shrug, “Selling tickets, but not filling seats.  Not turning enough of a profit. But we’ve seen worse.”

Phineas frowned as Phillip visibly tensed, his eyes cast down to the carriage floor.

“Well, we can look over the books and get things back on their feet tomorrow.  It’s too late to do anything tonight.” Phineas said, taking Phillip’s hand and squeezing it softly.

Nothing more was said as they travelled through the darkened streets.

The carriage took them to their apartment building.  O’Malley paid the driver and unloaded their bags, not waiting for instruction or request before carrying them up to their apartment.

“Jer and Con have been looking after the place with you gone,” he said over his shoulder as Phineas followed with Phillip on his arm, “They said you had a leaky ceiling.  Fixed that up for ya. Think they got a hold of some thicker curtains too.”

He relayed the information so offhandedly, as if it were nothing, that Phineas almost missed the fact that it was very definitely not nothing.  His family, the one he had created for himself in this troupe, never ceased to amaze him. Their compassion and concern about their own, even about him, who had once abandoned them all in pursuit of glory.

“I-I’ll have to thank them.” He said quietly, entering their home.  It was tidier than when they had left it, and certainly a small amount warmer.

“They didn’t do it for thanks.” O’Malley said, pausing at the door, “I’ll send someone over tomorrow morning to look after Phillip while yer at the circus.  He doesn’t look fit for more travel just yet.”

With that, and a final relieved glance at Phillip, he left.

Phineas was exhausted from the journey, and he knew Phillip was too.  After O’Malley had gone, he took them straight to the bedroom. There they sat together on their bed.  The sheets were new, thicker, too. Phineas wrapped one large blanket around them both and watched the candle on the writing desk slowly stutter out.

Over the course of their journey, after the food and sleep, Phillip had regained enough colour in his lips for them to almost approach their normal coral hue.  Now, seeing him illuminated by the soft orange glow of the solitary flame, Phineas couldn’t resist leaning over and placing a kiss upon them. When he pulled back to see the fond smile in Phillip’s gaze, he responded with another, longer, meeting of their lips.

Phillip’s hands left his lap to hang loosely to Phineas’ shoulders, drawing him closer.  Phineas could feel the flutter of Phillip’s eyelashes closing as he deepened the kiss, parting his lips to allow Phineas access.

More than willingly, Phineas obliged.  His tongue slipped between Phillip’s lips, brushed the inside of his mouth, explored languidly.  Phineas didn’t break the kiss as he gently pulled Phillip on top of him.

The marks of Phillip’s illness were prominent in the sensation of his bones against Phineas’ hips, the feeling of his ribs even through the layers of clothing still separating Phineas’ hands from his skin.

Phillip flinched as one hand brushed without thinking over the still raw wound on his side.  Phineas jerked back immediately, an urgent apology ready on his lips, only for it to be swallowed as Phillip met their lips once more, the apology denied.

Nonetheless, Phineas carried it in his eyes when Phillip pulled back, quickly drawing the younger man into as tight an embrace as he dared so Phillip wouldn’t have to see the tears of guilt and shame escape down his cheeks.

But he must have known they were there.

As Phineas heard Phillip’s breath start to even out with the pull of sleep, he felt shaky fingers brush the dampness from his cheeks, settling on the pillow beside his head.  Phineas fell asleep with the lingering sensation of those cold fingers on his skin, absolving his guilt with their soft caress.

\--- --- ---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I do hope you enjoyed.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [And Breathe Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17094773) by [The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting/pseuds/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting)




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